Where Bluebirds Fly (Synesthesia-Shift Series)

by Brynn Chapman

  The locket shone in the sunlight, sending a shower of reflective sparkles glittering on the wall.

  He decided, a little sheepishly, to wear it.

  She was real, so he wasn’t crazy. But she’d sparked a new kind of madness.

  His mind, chock-full of layered images, analyzed her every gesture, every pull of her mouth. It felt bloated, ready to burst.

  How would he think of anything else? Everything else paled against his desire to see her again.

  A strange, gnawing fear was growing. It said, ‘you won’t see her again.’ As if one afternoon of pure happiness was his life’s quota.

  His thick fingers fumbled with the locket’s tiny clasp, but he finally managed to get it around his neck. He slipped it under his sweater. He was smitten, but not an idiot.

  His lips twitched, and he smiled. Keeping perspective had never been a problem before, but it was definitely a problem now.

  Ram would take the Mickey out of him for this totally whipped gesture.

  He will not believe me.

  “I don’t care.” The sound of his voice in the morning silence was jarring. His heart ping-ponged between exultation and apprehension.

  “I just should’ve went with her.”

  But guilt at even the thought of that selfishness swatted down the mental volley.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. The feel of the tiny heart against his chest gave him something tangible, a reminder she was real, somewhere.

  Something shimmered on his bicep. Another living testament that she wasn’t fiction. A singular, red strand glittered with golden highlights in the sun.

  He left it there. Staring at it.

  You are acting like a school-boy.

  He smiled so wide his face hurt.

  He balanced the laptop precariously on his bed, hitting the Google search for the third straight hour.

  He typed, ‘Salem Witch Trials Verity Montague’ again.

  “You have to be somewhere, Verity.”

  No results found, glared back from the screen.

  No such person appeared to have been associated with the trials.

  He scrolled through now familiar names, searching for anything. Some distant relative?

  Mercy Lewis, Reverend Parris, Tituba…and finally, the words, Maine Indian Raids.

  “Yes!” he whooped, and then quickly covered his mouth, checking the time.

  Five a.m.

  Only a half hour remained till the morning pandemonium. The high school portion of the orphans would wake within the hour. As if on cue, a shuffling pair of sock-clad feet past his door, enroute to the bathroom.

  His eyes flicked back to the screen, reading furiously.

  The Maine Indian Raids left young Mercy Lewis orphaned, so Reverend George Burroughs took her in; they eventually moved south to Salem, Mass. Ultimately, Mercy ended up as a servant in the Putnam household, where she too, became afflicted. Mercy was supposedly visited by many of her fellow parishioners in spectral form. All it took was an accusatory proclamation by one of the afflicted girls for the authorities to bring in the defendant for questioning. So, if one was unpopular, such as Sarah Good, who was many times widowed, and had to resort to begging…

  He scanned further down.

  Or if one was deemed different, in a Puritan time so set upon sameness, these ones were optimal targets for accusation, and subsequent hanging. Indeed, the Puritans were a superstitious lot, mistrusting peoples with red hair—anything unfamiliar was to be considered as a possible witch.

  An impossible hole ripped open his chest, accompanied by a sensation of falling. He fell into fear’s gaping mouth, its gnashing circle quickly morphing into the hangman’s noose.

  “Oh, Verity. Why aren’t you mentioned here? Where are you in history?”

  His eyes shot around the room, unseeing; looking futilely for answers.

  His eyebrow rose.

  A wooden box, another gift from his father, was cracked open a fraction of an inch.

  Irritation rose with his brows. The children were not allowed in his room, let alone in his personal effects.

  He leapt off the bed, heading over to it.

  Cracking it open, he paused, staring at the contents.

  What? Who?

  The box was brimming with canary-yellow candies. At least they looked like candy?

  He plucked one out, and popped it in his mouth.

  Lemon drops?

  He lifted a handful, sliding them into his pocket.

  At the bottom, slipped under the candy, was a yellowing, ancient piece of paper.

  His heart skittered and stutter-stepped against his ribcage.

  He carefully slid the candies off, unfolding it. Bits of parchment sprinkled down to the floor.

  ~ ~ ~

  Where fears are born, and given legs,

  A place to grieve, to heal, to beg.

  To dare to dream, to face your fear,

  And rescue what you hold most dear.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ice water trickled through his veins, solidifying in his legs, which now felt heavy and weak. Again the surreal feeling. He half-wondered if Dave had a camera planted in his room somewhere.

  Ram poked his head in the door.

  He jumped two feet. “Fer the love of all that’s holy, do you ever bloody knock?”

  His hand dropped guiltily, trying nonchalantly to hide the paper behind his back.

  Ram’s eyes were wary. “You coming down or what? Breakfast won’t make itself, you know. Plus, they’re bringing the new boy for O.T., then he’s to stay.”

  “Yes, well I’m sure that O.T. session will make him incredibly happy. He’ll be thinking from the frying pan to the fire.” He laughed. It sounded bitter. “I think the bureaucrats who write the rules for therapy should have to actually implement them one day.”

  “Isn’t that what you had on yesterday?”

  Ram’s dark eyes narrowed, but a boy’s call distracted him and he left, padding down the hall. His face said he wasn’t awake enough for interrogation.

  Hesitating, he plucked Verity’s hair from his arm, and folded it into the locket. He snapped it shut, giving the laptop one last look. He stared at the parchment, deciding.

  He placed it back under the lemon drops. If he carried it on him, it would disintegrate by day’s end.

  He’d already memorized it, anyway. He wondered who had written it. And if he really wanted to know.

  He followed Ram down the stairs, nodding when expected at his conversation, but inside, the words from the internet kept repeating, ‘they were hanged for being different’.

  * * *

  I cling to Mercy’s arm. We huddle together in the back seat of the carriage as it rattles into Salem Town.

  A storm rages on, as it has for days, fueling the tempers of the men in the carriage. Thomas Putnam, his brother Edward, Joseph Hutchinson and Thomas Preston argue all the way, each with his own particular opinion about the fate of the accused.

  Mercy and I trail behind the men as we file into the building. Awaiting our troop is a somber-faced John Corwin. And to his right, an equally distressed John Hathorne.

  “It’s the hanging judge,” I whisper, low enough so only Mercy can hear.

  “Constables,” begins Thomas Putnam, “it grieves us greatly to convene, but action must be taken.”

  I feel Mercy tighten beneath my hand; an undulation of muscles courses up her arm like an invisible vice. Mercy’s eyes turn to me, wide with horror as the fit arrives.

  Her expression is a woman falling.

  “Good Sir Putnam, she be afflicted again!” I scream.

  Mercy collapses in a heap, her head hammering on the wood floor like Indian war-drums. The sound unearths long-buried visions.

  Dead, scalped bodies. The sweet smell of burning flesh.

  Sweat beads my brow and the hornets restart their song.

  Mercy’s limp hand reaches up as her eyes roll white in her head. She m
anages a strangled, wet cry.

  “Oh Mercy, oh Mercy.”

  I drop beside her, cradling her hand, letting my touch tell her I will protect her. If I can.

  The shaking stops. Mercy’s pink tongue juts out between her parted lips.

  I give it a discrete poke, tucking it back in her cheek.

  I gather her into my arms and rock; just as I’ve rocked John through so many nights of pain.

  “Give her to me, Verity.”

  Thomas Putnam stoops, sweeping Mercy into his arms. He ferries her into a back room, following the direction of Constable Corwin’s outstretched finger.

  I hurry behind, hovering, waiting.

  After a long whispered conversation, they finally leave us. I perch beside Mercy on the rickety cot. The door is ajar, and their voices filter in through the darkness.

  “As you can see, the fits seem to be stronger than an epilepsy. Much mischief has been done to Elizabeth Parris, Abigail Williams, Ann Putnam and Elizabeth Hubbard. Sundry times, within these two months, and lately also done at Salem Village contrary to the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady William and Mary, King and Queen of England….”*

  Their voices are drowned by the scream of hornets infesting my ears.

  I cup my hands over them, but it’s no use.

  I see the word hornets, dripped in purple flames, and picture them licking along my ear canal on their way to eat my addled brain.

  My mind flips through the pictures of the accused like a horrid walk to the gallows. Bridget Bishop. Tituba. John.

  All different. None meant any harm nor malice. My hands shake again.

  Hathorne’s voice cuts through my terror-fog, silencing my hateful insects. “I hereby issue warrants for Sarah Good, Tituba Indian, and Sarah Osborne under suspicion of witchcraft.”

  *Starred portions are snippets from the original transcripts of this meeting.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Truman squared his shoulders and inhaled deeply, preparing his mind. Each hour in Occupational Therapy was a physical, mental cage-match.

  April, the social worker from their sister orphanage, dragged the slip of a girl down the entrance hall, into the clinic. Her tiny body flopped to the floor, flailing against April’s hand, which encircled her wrist. The woman’s tall frame tottered on her high heels. She looked like a flamingo, tilting on one leg as the writhing girl knocked her off balance.

  Truman vaulted to the rescue, taking the little girl’s hand in his own.

  Tiny, tearful eyes met his as she howled in disdain. Her eyes darted like a trapped animal, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

  “So the orders are a continuous feeding at night by the tube and she is now P.O. during the day?”

  He automatically lifted his foot, blocking a kick from her tiny tennis shoe without glancing down.

  “What’s P.O.?” April looked harried.

  Her normally perfect hair hung in her face. She examined her manicure for injuries. Truman fought the urge to roll his eyes.

  “I mean she is allowed to eat, now? Her barium swallow came back without precautions? Her file said she was aspirating on thin liquids before, leaking into her lungs—the cause of the frequent pneumonia?”

  “Yes, yes. I hope you fare better than us. She’s eaten nothing since we took her in a day ago. If it continues, we’ll have to take her in for dehydration.”

  Truman took a mental sigh. “We’re okay. You’re a distraction. I’ll have Sunshine text you when we’re through.”

  April’s face was decidedly relieved as she closed the door to the clinic.

  Even professionals don’t know what to do with these kids, his mind retorted to her expression.

  He released the girl. She backed away, never taking her eyes off him. Black, wild hair flowed from her head, reaching her buttocks. It was woolly with thick tangles and knots.

  She was like a little black sheep; welcome to my world, little one. The smile splitting his lips was painful. And familiar.

  Sunshine entered, closing the door. The girl bolted forward, intent on escape. The door slammed a second before she could slip her foot out. Her body collapsed to the floor; she flailed, kicking and spitting.

  Her tiny chin quivered. A wail, shrill as nails on a chalkboard, ripped from her mouth.

  She flipped over, swinging like mad. Her forehead smashed against the floor with a wet thud.

  “Oh, come on.”

  Truman flew for her, but Sunshine arrived first, pulling the child into her arms.

  She hummed a lullaby in her ear.

  “Oh, Truman.” She kept her eyes downcast.

  She bit her lip, wrestling to keep her professional face on; but her voice had a telling quake.

  The girl was getting under his assistant’s skin.

  She was outlined in black—the color he associated with physical pain.

  Sunshine’s color was red; a direct contradiction to her typical resplendent shade of orange. It now flickered like dappled sunlight as her feelings shifted.

  Her dark hair fell in a curtain, hiding her expression.

  Truman summoned his emotional wall. “She’s been neglected, I’m guessing since day one. The file says her father was an alcoholic and in jail, and her mother was declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. That hair hasn’t had a brush run through it in years. We might have to shave it.”

  He fought the mental slideshow threatening behind his barricade.

  His six-year-old self; filthy, smelly. Crying.

  No, get it together. That was then. Make a difference now.

  He kneeled, squirting warm lotion onto his hands and rubbing them together.

  Carefully, he peeled off a tiny sock, leaving a ring of dirt lingering around her ankle.

  She smelled like a rest-stop urinal.

  He moved his hands in practiced, deep circles of massage and the girl instantly stilled, entranced.

  “Wow, that’s working,” Sunshine whispered. “What a difference from Timmy.”

  Truman raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Too early for that assumption, Watson.”

  He grasped a tiny hand, and began to rub.

  A primal scream erupted; she twisted, recoiling as if a million needles lodged under her fingernails.

  She lunged backwards in a head-butt. Sunshine juked out of the way.

  “You spoke too soon,” Truman said, still rubbing. “She’s tactilely defensive. Her nerves are working overtime. Think Princess and the Pea, but all over. Particularly with her hands.”

  Sunshine released her and walked across the clinic, searching desperately for a toy. Anything to distract her.

  Wild, dark eyes screamed at him. She lunged, shrieking in his face.

  He met her gaze, holding very still. He shifted to the other hand, intensifying the massaging motions.

  “If she can’t stand to touch things, she won’t eat either.”

  The girl gagged at the word eat, filling his lap with a white, chunky, pile of sick.

  He sighed. “Sunny, a little help here?”

  * * *

  Disgust burns my nose. Only hours have passed since Mercy’s fit, yet here she sits, prim and judgmental; encouraging Anne Jr. to condemn another in this endless night that’s conquered Salem.

  “Who was it, Anne?” Mercy prods. “Was it Goody Proctor or Goody Osborne?”

  “Yes, tell us child, whose spectral form torments you? Be it Sarah Good?” Anne Sr. prompts.

  I peek around the corner to see Anne Jr. on the chair by the fire, her gaze unfocused.

  “Someone sits in Grandmother’s chair across from me, even now. She is pale.”

  I pretend to sweep near the main room, needing to hear Anne, Jr.’s condemnations.

  I do not trust that girl. At times, she does appear afflicted, but others—I think she craves the attention. Needs it like a drunkard to his drink.

  “Be it one of the Parris family?

  I step into the other room, suppressing my ga
sp.

  John’s stare is quizzical.

  “What? What is going on?”

  John is unable to decipher emotions. In order for him to understand someone’s anger, the person need strike him or curse him to his face.

  The language of the eyes, that’s oft in complete contradiction to people’s words, is foreign to him. I am his interpreter.

  My brother isn’t stupid, quite the opposite, but his inability to decipher faces left him constantly guessing, and anxious.

  I sigh, wishing that the intensity of my love for him, would heal him. He feels like an immigrant, even among his own people.

  “Goodwife Putnam just suggested another! I know not what shall become of this town.”

  “Aye, Goody Nurse was always kind to me. Look what happened to her.”

  “No, it could not be?”

  “Pray what, sister? Speak plainly.”

  “The Putnams have argued with the Nurses as long as I can recall about where their land halts, and the Nurses’ begins. Do you suppose they would suggest this to Anne to influence her? To get the land?”

  John shrugs. “Some people’s hearts are black as ink.”

  I grin. No doubt John took considerable time working out that comparison. And practiced it.

  Anne Jr.’s voice rings out, and we both turn toward the sitting area. “Yes, I do believe it was Goodwife Nurse, ma’am.”

  My mouth pops open, along with the floodgate of fear.

  “As I live and breathe, John. Goodwife Nurse’s breaths be numbered. No soul be safe in Salem.”

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  Saturday, October 28th, 5:30 a.m.

  Dawn was seeping through the clouds again, its filtered rays shining through a mostly overcast morning.

  Truman hurriedly typed ‘Salem Witch Trials’ into the search engine and held his breath.

  A tottering pile of books surrounded him, all on the subject at hand. He stifled a yawn.

  Obsession was Ram’s diagnosis. His fingers compulsively rubbed Verity’s locket. His eyes flicked to the calendar.

  Two weeks. No letters. No contact. No moon. Nothing.

  If not for the bit of silver between his fingers, he’d be doubting his own sanity by now.