Where Bluebirds Fly (Synesthesia-Shift Series)

by Brynn Chapman

  Sweat dampened his palms. He opened the journal to the last entry, re-reading it for the fifteenth time.

  ~ ~ ~

  Truman…the whole town seems enchanted. People are accusing John. It’s only a matter of time ’til they come for me. I will keep checking the door. I so wish to see you again. I fear I am not long for this world.

  ~ ~ ~

  It’d been too long since he saw her. Each day, a worried, aching need burrowed deeper into his heart like an emotive parasite.

  Only one thing would halt it: to see her, touch her, know she still lived.

  Each day he checked the door, and each day it stayed maddeningly closed.

  The more days past, the more his anxiety mounted. He took it with him to bed and in the morning it was breathing down his neck before he opened his eyes.

  Focusing on his job was insanely difficult. He preferred to be a stalker at the bridge. Then he felt he was doing something.

  Over a figment of your imagination! Ram’s voice, a-gain.

  His eyes flicked to the corn maze, finally finished yesterday, amidst fifty-million other duties leading up to the Fall Festival.

  It was the orphanage’s most important fundraiser of the year. And here he was, hiding in his room, neglecting his chores. Like one of the bloody adolescents.

  Dr. Linkler wouldn’t attend this year—the old man was having trouble walking…so they’d conference call him after it was done to discuss the proceeds.

  A book slipped off his bed, hitting the ground with a loud thud.

  He froze, expecting a childish call to crack the silence.

  Ram knocked and poked his head in; his eyes widened at the piles of books. Truman knew he was counting them.

  “True, this is beyond obsession. Over what? Some personification of a woman you’ve invented?”

  Truman ground his teeth together. “I did not invent her. I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t give a crap if you don’t believe me; I have more important things to worry about.”

  Ram’s dark eyebrows knitted. “Yes, you do. Like the Fall Harvest Festival today. Like all the money it raises for the orphanage. Like our paychecks. Like that new little boy upstairs, who seems to only respond to you, not me? Like all the other children we have here. Like the date you have with Antonia tonight.”

  “Bullocks. I completely forgot about her. I made that months ago. I’m canceling.”

  “No, you-are-not canceling. It’s been eons since you were on a date. You’re going. Close that computer and help me with the insanity downstairs. We vowed to do this together, did we not?”

  Ram’s voice was tired and his eyes were bleary. He looked a decade older today.

  He’d been selfish, leaving Ram with the brunt of the work.

  They’d promised to do it together—to give a few children a shot at a happy childhood. Unlike their own.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been selfish,” he said, snapping the laptop closed. “I’ve just… never felt this way. Ever.”

  Ram rolled his eyes, but they softened a fraction. “Typical you. Could never fall in love in a normal way, with a normal person.”

  “No, that would definitely be boring.”

  * * *

  10:00 a.m.

  Truman slid into the pantry, hiding. He pressed his forehead against the cool wall, escaping the chaos, searching his head for any remaining-shreds of patience. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The calliope music from the carnival filtered under the door—reminding him his respite was limited.

  I’m bloody losing it.

  He flipped open his phone and texted Antonia. A total cop-out.

  Have to cancel. Sorry. Something came up. True.

  He hoped it would be enough and she didn’t just show on his porch—that woman did not take no for an answer.

  He hit the ‘send’ button and startled as the pantry door slid open.

  Tiny Andrew stared up at him; his huge, black eyes questioning. “Truman, are you coming? We don’t have much time.”

  “Yes, so right you are, lad.”

  Outside, the barnyard was a flurry of activity. Children and volunteers streaked back and forth on fast forward.

  It would be comical if he weren’t so utterly stressed.

  Ram strode toward him, his face grim. “Are you ready? Cruella De Ville cometh.”

  He turned, indicating a tall, grey haired woman, distinctly out of place in the barnyard.

  Her long, shapely legs teetered on high heels, her designer bag dangling from red-hot nails. Her new tightened skin belied her current face-lift.

  Ram chortled. “The devil does wear Prada.”

  Truman dropped his voice. “And Gucci. That bag she’s clutching costs as much as our mortgage.”

  “What’s that expression about biting the hand that….”

  Truman cleared his throat as the woman arrived.

  She studiously ignored Ram.

  “Truman! So wonderful to see you again. Are you ready to give me the tour?” She extended a hand to him.

  Truman cringed. Ram intentionally sicked the older woman on him. She fancied him—was in love with his accent.

  “Yes, mum.”

  Ram winked behind her back. Truman returned with an I’ll-deal-with-you-later look.

  “Ram, I will speak with you when we are finished,” she added with a flippant wave.

  Truman led her into the orphanage, beginning with the ground floor and the O.T. clinic, explaining the different types of patients seen there. He opened the sliding doors for her to peek inside.

  “We have loads of kids with sensory integration problems, autism spectrum disorders, Down’s Syndrome, and many feeding kids.”

  “What do you mean by feeding kids?”

  “Children who are on tubes to eat for a variety of different reasons. It is our job to figure out why, and to try and help them regain that ability—if they’re able.”

  “I see. Sounds challenging.”

  Truman laughed; it had a very rough edge.

  “Yes, you have no idea. Many of the kids we get here are from terrible homes. Were never cared for, have attachment disorders. They come in unbathed. Many end up in foster care.”

  Like me.

  “Like your facility?”

  “Yes.”

  He led her out into the sun, thankful to leave the clinic.

  The sun warmed his face, and the sounds of children’s laughter split his lips into a reluctant smile. His shoulders relaxed as he stared at the carnival.

  The neighboring children’s home, one for girls, had brought a busload. Truman stared at the bright colors and ponytails trickling off the bus. It felt so foreign amidst his daily deluge of baseball bats, action figures and ultimate fighter re-enactments. Their house mother, Jo, led the way, as the girl’s followed in a queue, reminding him of ducklings.

  Sophie, his favorite, waved vigorously from the back of the line. She charged over, breaking ranks. Jo rolled her eyes, but halted the procession.

  “Where’s my booth?” she said excitedly.

  “Go find Ram. It’s all set up.”

  She turned to bolt, but he caught her shoulder. “Manners, Sophie.”

  She gave Mrs. Simon a cursory glance. “Hello!” and took off.

  Truman chuckled. “Sorry, she’s a little excitable.”

  He watched Ram position her behind her booth.

  A few of his little ones played tag in the mini-hay bale maze. Ram had gone all out this year, renting a proper carousel. The calliope music tinkled throughout the thoroughfare.

  He led the way, walking Cruella past a massive pumpkin patch, where orange orbs of every shape and breadth littered the ground as numerous as the fall leaves.

  Patrons arrived in droves now, and a man hoisted his wee girl onto a giant pumpkin, where her legs dangled in the air. Her mother snapped a perfectly-posed shot.

  His gut pinched in a familiar emotion. Jealousy. Although he took joy in matching happy families, deep down, he envied
them. All he’d ever wanted was normal. It was his way of coping; to heal these children by giving them what he’d never had.

  “What is that contraption?” Mrs. Simon asked, pointing at a tall, wooden tower.

  “That is in case of emergency, for the corn maze.”

  He spoke quickly in response to her concerned look. “In three years, we haven’t had a problem yet.”

  Fall chrysanthemums in shades of orange, yellow and deepest maroon sat upon hay bales throughout the yard.

  They arrived at the hot and cold cider shanty. “This is David and Ethan, our high-schoolers. They only have one more year with us.”

  “Good day, boys.”

  “David is going on to trade school, and Ethan…isn’t sure yet. He’s considering staying on with us as a hand.”

  Truman shuffled her past the row of kiosks, often reaching over to steady her as her stilettos rolled over a rock.

  The next shanty had glow-sticks for sale, manned by waifish Sophie. She gave Mrs. Simon what Truman recognized as her most-winning smile. Sophie was determined to be an actress. “Good day, Mum,” she said, in a spot-on imitation of Truman’s Scottish accent.

  Ms. Simon laughed delightedly, her eyes flicking to Truman’s. “Why child, that is excellent.”

  “Sophie will be doing the costumed story-telling tonight in the barn, by candlelight. It’s one of our biggest sellers for the festival.”

  As they turned to go, he shot her a wink. She really was his favorite. Such a corker.

  Passing the pumpkin pie booth, they reached the barn which bordered the cornfield.

  “Inside, we have the horses, and I’ll be doing a hay-ride later, and of course the maze-which is a huge undertaking for two of us. In the winter, we also do sleigh rides. I bought a buggy from the local Amish. So, you see, we are doing our best to fund the orphanage on our own. Of course, your donations are tremendously helpful to offset the costs for the children.”

  Ms. Simon shoo’ed a fly buzzing near her ear. “Do you ride, Truman?”

  “Yes, mum. I teach the children to ride, and they also are involved in many chores around the place to teach them responsibility.”

  “Tell me about the maze.”

  His eyes drifted across the stocks. “The maze is five acres across. We have bridges placed in the four corners—north, south, east, west. It has two emergency exits for children who get frustrated.”

  A shrill, feminine scream rent the air.

  They both froze, mid-stride.

  His heart leapt on a wave of adrenaline. His legs tensed, ready to run.

  “Help! Help me!”

  “Bollocks.” He whispered the word on an exhale.

  A teen-aged girl busted out the maze’s mouth and charged them. Her hair swirled in the wind and her face constricted, contorting; her eyes wild with fear.

  “My little brother, I’ve lost him in the corn. I can hear him screaming, but I can’t find him anywhere! He says there’s something in there!”

  Truman’s eyes met Ram’s, mirroring his panic. “Ram, get up in the tower with a walkie-talkie. I’m going in.”

  Truman bolted after the teen and followed her down the green paths, and was quickly swallowed by the corn.

  * * *

  The wind whips up and I shiver, staring at the Putnam house, which looks as bleak and weather-worn as I feel.

  My legs feel leaden, as if the cold has seeped in and frozen them to the marrow.

  My cracked hands itch and sting; when I curl my fingers toward my palm, it feels like ice cracking.

  Truman. My chores are woefully behind. I find myself staring stupidly, thinking of him. The door will not permit me entry. My mind whispers he is a manifestation of the Man in Black. Our Bible sermon spoke of the devil appearing as an angel of light.

  His name summons a cornflower-blue word in my mind, similar to the color of his eyes. Fear fills my chest, but a new, selfish need rages, and my hands shake, a forest-fire burning up my chest, threatening to consume me. To stay with him, be by his side.

  Living is harder now. Now that I’ve felt something other than fear.

  I ache with loneliness; as if my self, once content with scraps of joy, had now seen and felt a bounty, and would not accept less.

  It vacated my heart; I can almost hear its echoes, rattling around inside my hollow chest.

  My fingers twitch in recollection; to run them through his thick, dark hair, smooth away those worried lines on his forehead. He is too young for such lines.

  When he looks at me-he sees past my brave façade.

  He understands me—cares not if I am orphaned, poor and different. And come with the load of rearing my brother.

  Decision slams a door in my heart.

  I shall run. Any place be better than Salem.

  The crushing weight on my heart lifts. I’ve made up my mind. How to convince John?

  Screams and shouts bring me back. I turn and run, crunching through the knee-deep snow back toward the Putnam house.

  Anne’s screeching voice echoes into the night, and gooseflesh sprouts from scalp to toe.

  “Mother! Call Constable Corwin! He be afflicting me!”

  I step inside as Anne Jr. slumps to the floor, muscles twitching as if an invisible seamstress jabs and pulls at a million different points on her pale skin.

  John stands aghast in the middle of the room, hands protecting his ears.

  Anne’s head whips up to stare at Mercy, who looks as mortified as John.

  “Mercy Lewis, confess. You told me, John confided in you that he sees shapes and pictures when music plays. If that is not the work of the Man in Black, I do not know what is! He speaks to him through the music! That be why he can draw so well.”

  Mercy’s eyes brim and she turns to John, shaking her head. “Oh, John. I am so sorry! I should not have told her!”

  Dread and bile fill my mouth, and my limbs shake with a violence to rival Anne’s.

  Anne Sr. stares at John, her gaze lighting like a match-struck.

  “John Montague, be you in league with the dark one? Have you signed his book?”

  The hornets whir to life, and I see the word, death, flash, blinking red in my head.

  “No!” I scream, launching myself at Ms. Putnam’s feet with outstretched arms. Blocking John.

  “Please, Mum, John is an innocent—incapable of deceit. Of lying, even!”

  John opens his mouth, and stutters. My heart bleeds in my chest at the thought of him gone from me. Back to the dirt, with the rest of my family.

  “I l-l-love God, Mum. I would never do wrong.”

  Anne Sr.’s eyes are hard as flint. She juts a finger toward the door. “Mercy. Go and fetch Constable Corwin.”

  “No! No! No!”

  I fly in front of John, spreading my arms wide. “You shall never take him! Or hang him! You shall have to kill me first!”

  A blinding red rage grips me. I will hurt her now, if she’s so daft to try and touch him.

  Mercy stands frozen, hands covering her face, appalled at the circumstance she’s created.

  Mrs. Putnam shrieks, stamping her foot on the floor at my insubordination. “Now, Mercy!”

  Mercy bolts, eyes cast down, out the door.

  Anne Jr. continues her theatrics, writhing and making strangled sounds from the floor. I’ve learned, when Anne’s eyes roll and jiggle the fit be real, but now, every once and again she steals a glance at me. She’s pretending.

  I grasp John’s hand, hurtling toward the front door.

  “Where do you think you are going?” Anne Sr. screams, a bit of spittle flying. Her eyes are mad. A rabid animal.

  I yell over my shoulder, “My brother is innocent, same as most of the accused in Salem.”

  Years of hatred, encased in years of silent servitude, crack open and overflow from my mouth.

  I stop, scowling back at the writhing girl. “Sarah Good, a poor beggar-woman. Tiny Dorcas Good, Anne? Bewitching you? Dorcas is but four years old. W
hat could that child do to you? You’re right the devil is in Salem, but it’s in his works, not the Man in Black. Selfishness, greed, and lies.”

  “You will both hang!” Anne Sr. shrieks.

  She lunges, grasping for my frock. I twirl out of her reach. Her desperate fingers clutch to find purchase on the fabric.

  I wrangle out of her grasp and haul John toward freedom.

  I kick open the door with my boot-heel and plunge him out through the thigh-high snow, slogging headlong across the yard for the cornfield.

  “Please, open. Oh, dear merciful heavens let it open,” I whisper over and over as we charge into the withering, yellowed rows.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  Truman bolted through the corn, half-screaming into the walkie-talkie. “Ram, can you see him ennawhere?”

  His reply crackled with static. “No, not yet.”

  Turning, he searched above the corn tops for the observation tower. It was built precisely for such occasions, but never used in the past three years of the maze.

  “Try to send out a call to the other talkies.”

  He skidded to a stop in front of the first one, mounted on a stalk. It was Ethan’s job to go through the maze once a week and to check the batteries. With the sheer size of it, they’d devised this back-up plan. Eight different talkies were planted throughout the leafy puzzle to lead children to the exits. Like an auditory trail of breadcrumbs.

  A few rows over, the crackle of the Victrola started.

  “Oh, please, not now.”

  Ram’s voice sounded from the stalk. “Can you hear me? Tommy?”

  Truman depressed the button on the mounted talkie. “I’m at number one, it works. Keep calling him and keep trying. I so do not want to call in a ‘copter; it will be terrible press.”

  “I’ve got the older kids going out in pairs, starting at the four corner entrances, closing in toward the center.”

  A rustling to the north caught his ear. He bolted, changing directions.

  A beat up trainer disappeared into a neighboring row ahead. Disembodied crying erupted directly beside his ear. He whirled, tripping. It faded in and out, like a stereo turned up then down. His head swiveled, trying to keep up with the circling sound.