Where Bluebirds Fly (26 page)

The air was rife with wings and beaks. The birds congested the space between the villagers so thickly they were frozen in place, afraid to move. Their trilling was deafening. A bizarre, sweet-sounding song called from their tiny bodies.

Truman gaped, no one was being hurt. They were merely a distraction.
 

John was covering his ears, rocking in place as Verity’s hands reached out to him.

Somewhere in the corn, he heard the low drone of voices rise, young and old, feral and calm.
 

Another maelstrom of feathers bloated the air as a second cavalry hit. He saw Corwin and Hathorne surrounded by a revolving tornado of birds, which pecked and pulled, every time they tried to move.

“This surely is the work of The Man in Black! Hang her!” Corwin screamed.

Truman bolted, pistol drawn, storming the hill.
 

The hangman was swatting at one hundred birds, which pushed him in a wall of flapping wings, away from the nooses. He tripped, and rolled down the hill inside a swirling, undulating mass of feathers.

He scrambled to the top, briefly squeezing her hands, and then wresting the noose from her neck.
 
He moved swiftly to John.

“Oh, T-Truman.”
 

“No time, love. We have to move.”

Villagers were screaming over the shrieking birds. Some tried to clamber up the hill, only to be beaten back by the bluebirds.

“She is getting away! The Witch! Seize her!”

They bolted for the corn, holding hands in a chain.

* * *

“Verity, we have to get to the corn. Run faster!”

They ran, as fast as they could, half-dragging John between them.
 

Barks sounded in the night.

“Not the dogs again. John, you must
run
!”

The barks seemed to have woken a primal fear in John, his eyes churning. He launched himself into a gangly half-lope, half-run beside them.

Weaving through the rows, the dogs’ clipped barks were mere rows behind.

“They have to be in here somewhere!”

After what seemed an eternity, the longest minutes of his life-the bridge came into view.

Grasping hands, the trio bolted up its planks.

“Please, open. Please, ruddy open,” he heard himself chanting.
 

Another moon materialized on the other side, and he nearly wept.
 

The three busted through the gelatinous door. Lights in every hue flickered, coupled by the perception of spiraling down the center of a cyclone funnel. The time stream whipped across his face, contracting and relaxing at regular intervals.

“Don’t let go!” Verity screamed. He could no longer see her, but felt her grip tighten on his hand. She sounded miles away. And so terrified. He remembered landing in the corn alone, and crushed her hand in his.

They landed with a thud on the other side, in a dog-pile of arms and legs.
 

Verity shrieked, her brown and hazel eyes wide with horror.

Dogs crouched at the gelatinous doorway, snarling and biting at it. Fangs bared, hackles raised, they stared with malice at the trio sprawled on the ground.

“They can see us,” Truman marveled.

A group of men appeared behind them, apparently seeing nothing. They stumbled around in confusion, yelling at one another in the chaos.

“They were just here!”

“That is bloody impossible! This cornfield is bewitched by the Man in black, no doubt!”

They whistled the dogs back off the bridge.

The three sat on the ground, huddled together in relief. John and Verity’s chests heaved in unison, desperately clutching one another.
 

Truman swiped his face with the back of his hand, and bowed his head. Giving thanks for perhaps only the third time in his life. Perhaps there was some justice in the world.

“Let’s get back to the house,” he said, gently grabbing each of them by an elbow. “I want to get out of the corn.” The music seemed to mourn, now.

Verity shot him a tear streaked gaze. “Listen to it. So sad. That’s not your song.”

He cocked his head. “No. It must mean something. And it cannot be good.”
 

They took off at a trot down the row leading toward the orphanage.

* * *

Chapter 27

Weaving down the rows, Truman was flat out running. An unpleasant apprehension was mounting and corresponding tracks of feelings, surging in his head, were doing miniscule calculations. They were not safe yet.
 

Like a curtain call with the words spoken in his mind-the path ahead went black, as if night had fallen.

“Like when darkness followed the Egyptians in the Bible,” he murmured.

John nodded. “Y-Yes, one of the ten plagues.”

Truman laughed nervously. “We better not be the Egyptians. I’m shooting for Israelite under the circumstances.”

A cannon’s boom shot through the night. A hissing noise rent their ears as a projectile’s arc whizzed toward them, growing louder and louder.

“Get down!” Truman screamed.

A cannonball blasted through the curtains in the corn, landing not twenty feet away; its force taking out an entire row in one destructive swoop.

They bolted past the open curtain, sprinting away toward the center of the maze.

Truman yelled over his shoulder, not breaking stride. “The maze must open to other time periods besides yours, Verity.”

The orphanage was in sight now, about ten minutes of winding rows away. Verity’s fingers grasped his arm, slowing him.

From every corner of the corn, gruesome scenes raged—like a thousand drive-in movie screens, plastered into the corn.

To the north, he plainly recognized Revolutionary War uniforms, as they whizzed past the open window in time.

To the south, a huddle of children screamed in terror. A locust swarm gathered, so thick and tight, they disappeared beneath its undulating multitude.

To the west, a beautiful girl, with raven-black hair, played a cello. Tears streaked her full cheeks as she stared lovingly up at the moon.

“Who are they?”

“We have been brought together for more than true love.” Her mismatched eyes were troubled and filling again. “I feel certain of it.”

“Someone is coming! It’s from the direction of the south door, run!” Truman shouted at them.

Verity grasped John’s hand and they flew through the stalks winding toward the orphanage.
 

Truman shot glances over his shoulder trying to get a glimpse of the attacker.
 

He stopped, giving them a lead, and slipped into a particularly thick cluster of stalks, waiting.

A young man, blond and handsome, dressed in what he estimated to be 18th century attire, charged toward him.

When the man’s foot struck the ground before him, Truman launched into the air, tackling him. Rolling through the corn, he grappled to restrain the stranger. The man was younger than him, and a little thicker-but the sheer adrenaline force surging through him gave him the advantage.

Straddling him, he shot a punch across the man’s jawbone.

It was then he noticed the colors outlining his person, so similar to the residents of Salem—deep azure blue, outlined in red.
 

Fear. Is he frightened of me?

Truman’s computer-like mind launched without his permission into a whirlwind analysis of the man’s expression. A database of micro-facial patterns registered, flowing toward him in a colored queue, and exploding into a tight analysis, culminating in an intuition.

The man’s blue eyes widened, and Truman saw the familiar emotions which were all tagged by color and geometric shape. His analysis computed in ten seconds.
 

He paused with his fist cocked in the air.

“Please sir. The-the wind sent me. I desperately need your help.” He swallowed. “And I know that sounds mad.”

Truman’s mouth dropped open, and he slumped to the ground beside him.

He reached out to touch him. The man faded, like a photograph. First losing his color, turning black and white, and then to nothing.

John and Verity reappeared, in time to see his disintegration.

They stared at the spot, unmoving. John dropped to his knees, feeling around on the ground.

“I, I don’t understand,” she finally said.
 

A deep, mournful call of a cello surrounded them.

A thunderous crack shook the corn.

The whirling dervish appeared, and from it the whispers. “He will return. It’s a time track. A replaying of history, if you will.”

“What can we do?”

The whirlwind circled Verity. “She knows.”

“To much whom is given, much shall be expected.” Her eyes searched mine, clear and open.

“He will return. Will you help him?”

Truman stared around him. The scenes were fading into the night, like a fizzling fireworks display. Popping out one after the other. Till the night was black, and quiet.
 

The only remaining sound was…the bluebirds.
 

His father’s words returned to his head,
Your intellect doesn’t matter. It is what you choose to do with it.
 

He knew. They were all chosen, bound together through a thread in time to help those who could not help themselves.
 

Verity eyed him, but her expression left no doubt.
 

He took Verity’s hand, and after a moment, hugged John to his other side.
 

“Yes. What do we need to do?”

* * *

Epilogue

One year later, October.

I walk out onto the porch and stare at the barnyard. To say this day will be hectic, is an understatement. The sun is burning off the morning mist, but I shiver a little and wrap my sweater more tightly around my shoulders. I drink in the cornucopia of fall leaves that litter the yard. The past year has been the best of my life, and it’s going to end.

I turn to see my brother sitting on the rocker. I flinch. He’s so quiet, he blends into the porch furniture.

“Hi, John. How’s it going with Edward?”
 

The autistic boy looks up at me with the mention of his name. He signs ‘hello’.

“That is wonderful, that he said hi to me on his own. You are doing a marvelous job.”
 

John is not going with me, and for that, I’m glad.

“Thank you sister.” John’s eyes shine with pride.

He belongs here, where he is safe, and finally has other people who love him as much as I.

Ram pokes his head out the door. “Come on, Edward, John. We have lots to do today. The Festival starts at noon, and we are nowhere near ready.”
 

Shouts and laughter seep into the barnyard as Ram opens the front door wider.
 

“Verity? You all right?” Ram asks. His eyes flick to the corn with a resigned expression. The clock is ticking. He and I have come to terms. We understand each other now.

“Yes. I’m just going to find True, and then I’ll be right in to help.” I smile at him.

I leave the porch and head across the barnyard.

The cornfield towers above me, tall and green. I planted sunflowers at its mouth—perhaps to combat my own fear of the place. The result is a pleasing contrast of yellow flowers and black faces against the leafy green maze door.

A map of the new maze is affixed to a wooden podium at the entrance.
 

I stare at it, tracing the steps to the bridges in the maze with my finger.
 

Where will we go this year? Will it be the same? Will that young man truly be waiting? And the voices? I’ve entered the stalks a million times, and it’s quiet. The music is gone.
 

“But the birds are here.” I smile up at a flock of them. They perch on the corn, watching, as always.
 

The sound of hoof beats cut through my musing. Truman angles the appaloosa around the hay bales, stopping in front of me. The sun glitters off the russet stubble on his cheeks.

My stomach drops a little, just looking at him. I know it’s dangerous to love someone so much. But I have no choice in the matter. Time hasn’t dampened my desire.
 

He extends a hand to me.
 

“Ram is looking for you.”

“One ride,” Truman says, glancing at the house like a boy escaping his chores.
 

I grin and shove my foot in the stirrup, throwing myself behind him.