Where Bluebirds Fly (Synesthesia-Shift Series)

by Brynn Chapman

  The snuffling rose to howling. Howling like an animal in pain.

  The raspy voice surrounded him, a puff of breath into his ear.

  He whirled. His heart throbbed, skipping a beat.

  Nothing, no one anywhere.

  “Wot is going on now? I dunna have time for this!”

  Truman flew to the spot where the shoe had evaporated, following the pinnacle of the wailing.

  He halted, dumbstruck.

  A section of corn shook to life; the stalks collapsed, falling one over the other like rows of dominos, resulting in a tiny crop circle.

  The circle darkened as the bright blue sky above it faded to black. A circular room materialized, dusty and lined with books from floor to ceiling. A rocking chair creaked before a blazing fire, which blasted his face with heat.

  His heart went apoplectic, then gunned into overdrive, as if someone’d injected it with pure adrenaline.

  His legs quivered, preparing to bolt.

  “I-I….” No words would come. Would fit.

  A small boy crouched in the center, his arms wrapped about his knees in a tight ball. A book lay at his side, Oliver Twist. His body gently rocked, as he tried to console himself. Tears cut dirty tracks down his cheeks.

  Odd, he doesn’t show a color.

  Fear and empathy warred in his chest. He hesitated, foot poised to step inside the circle.

  Empathy won. He stepped into the darkened library. The door slammed shut, and the cornfield evaporated. His dry throat clicked as he opened his mouth.

  The Victrola crackled to life. Judy’s voice again. This time skipping “…that’s where, that’s where, that’s where….”

  “You’ll find me,” he whispered, completing the sentence.

  A burning, paternal protection swelled his heart.

  “Are you all right? I’m ’ere, now. I’ll take you home, boy.” He was but five feet away from the cowering child when a chill scurried up his back like a smattering of spiders.

  His heart leapt, plummeted, and lodged somewhere near his stomach.

  The boy’s hair, dirty and unkempt, had a familiar cowlick. His tiny hands kneaded a filthy stuffed dog; its once brown-coat was now black with use.

  Pain shot through his nose and a bitter taste filled his mouth. Signs that tears were brewing.

  The pain-fear sensation shot through his groin. He knew those trainers. He’d worn them till they rubbed raw blisters on the tips of his toes, till social services finally got him a new pair.

  And Oliver Twist. Reading kept me sane. Becoming part of the story was my only escape.

  It was him. A younger him.

  Bottled pain—kept at bay by years of practice—popped open, bubbling back into his consciousness.

  He dropped to his knees beside the boy, sobbing. Reaching out, he tried to gather him into his arms. To give his younger self the comfort he so desperately desired. To tell him one day, it would be all right. He wouldn’t be lonely.

  A shrill blast, like a freight train, swept up about his head. The entire circle rotated, like a dizzying merry-go-round. Its revolutions spiraled faster and faster till with a pop, the boy and the library disappeared.

  Cramming his eyes closed, he waited for the spinning in his head to quiet.

  Ram’s voice came through the talkie, uttering a string of curses. “Truman! Where are you? I can’t see you in there! Answer me right now or I’m coming in.”

  True stumbled, one foot collapsing as his ankle twisted from the trembling. “I’m here. I thought I found him…but I didn’t.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Ram’s voice was quavering. No doubt, vivid images of their dream being shut down were playing in his mind, as the identical scenes flashed behind Truman’s eyes.

  A great, grumbling hiss erupted, filling the air. He wheeled toward the sound. A myriad of bodiless voices erupted in a strange sing-song harmony.

  They surrounded him, like a circle. He twirled on the spot, head revolving. Nothing. Just the stalks swaying in the summer breeze.

  The a capella harmony rose, getting closer and fading, getting closer and fading; as if the voices whispered in his ear, then darted away. His head rocked with vertigo.

  “Truu-man,” a sad voice crooned, rising above the humming.

  His gut contracted as if sucker-punched.

  The talkie bounced off the ground as his hands flew to the sides of his head. To protect his mind.

  I am having a psychotic episode. I’ve finally snapped.

  “The silly boy is to the South,” the whisper said. Its voice was a growl and a rasp; a horrid union of splintering tree branches and the hissing of wasps. “Mind the girl, she needs you. Her hourglass is almost empty.”

  The chorus of voices held one long, droning note, and cut off like the closing of a maestro’s fist. The whispering grew fainter, moving away, and disappeared with another sucking pop.

  “Truman! Truman! I can see you now, what was that I heard?”

  He bent, retrieving the talkie. His shaking hand bashed it against his jaw. He depressed the button. Every movement was labored, to keep plugged into reality.

  “I dunno. I’m so glad you bloody heard it. I thought I was losing me mind. Use the binoculars; they said he’s to the South.”

  “They…spoke to you? I just heard some freaky-weird sounds.”

  “Yeah. I’m a freak-magnet.” His chest convulsed with laughter. It felt wrong, hysterical.

  “I see him! Head down there, I’ll transmit to the talkie down there and try to keep him still.”

  Within ten minutes Truman was carrying the shaking boy out of the exit of the maze to a waiting camera crew, courtesy of the local news station. Flashbulbs exploded, making instant spots dance before his eyes.

  Ram waited behind the mob of reporters, looking irritated. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

  A microphone was thrust two inches from Truman’s lips. He considered biting it.

  “How is the boy doing?”

  “He will be fine, just a little scared is all.” He handed the boy off to the waiting arms of his teenage sister.

  A car screeched to a halt in the barnyard, sending gravel flying. A woman busted out of the passenger side door and bolted toward them. “Billy! On my heavens, Billy!”

  “There are voices in the corn,” the boy whispered, so low only Truman and his sister heard him. The girl eyed him warily.

  Truman held up his hands. “That’s it folks, show’s over!” He and Ram motioned to the older boys to assist in escorting the media off the premises.

  Truman searched for Cruella in the crowd, but she was nowhere. His gut thumped with another pulse of worry.

  “I think it’s fine. I think she’ll still donate.” Ram had reassured him later. But his stomach was not a believer.

  Twilight fell, and with it, the milling festival guests finally departed. He’d thought it wise to cancel the story readings in the barn, much to Sophie’s outrage. She never missed a chance to perform.

  “Truman,” she whined, “It’s ridiculous! You know how good my readings are!”

  “Tomorrow night, I promise, love. Ram and I are spent, even if the rest of you aren’t. My nerves are frayed like I’ve just had a lobotomy.”

  When the girl reluctantly let Jo shuffle her onto the bus, he stood and paced in front of the porch till it was out of sight.

  “Settle down, Scotty. It’s over now, and Cruella was easily placated.”

  “That’s not the point!” he screamed. His carefully jailed emotions busted free of their incarceration. “Our whole dream could have been destroyed today! There is something in the corn! Don’t reason it away, Dr. Strangelove—you bloody well heard them too!”

  He bit his lip and squinted toward the corn maze.

  He strode over to the barn, plucking a flashlight off the shelf. Its strong beam cut a line of light through the thick blackness of the barnyard.

  “What are you doing? We have at least three kids to ready f
or bed.”

  “Get Sunny to stay. Tell her its overtime.”

  He heard Ram’s exasperated cursing as he jogged into the corn.

  * * *

  My knees go weak at the sound. Dogs. Not far behind. I clap my hands over my mouth to stifle the scream clawing up my throat.

  I whisper, “Run John!”

  I grab his hand, and pull him, weaving through the stalks. Words shoot through my head like musket fire of emotions and color.

  Doomed, fight, save him.

  “Verity, I’m frightened. They will hang me!”

  “Oh John, oh my love! Keep running! Do not look back!”

  A loud, booming voice rises over the barks. “Verity and John Montague, you are commanded to surrender on suspicion of witchcraft! If you cease to flee, the court will take this into consideration!”

  John halts; his eyes trusting and clear.

  “No, John.” I shake his shoulders. “Think of poor old Rebecca Nurse. She did nothing wrong. They lie to catch us.”

  If I die, even if I don’t hang, he is lost. He will always see the best in people, even at their worst. I yank harder on his elbow.

  Gratefulness opens a yawning hole in my chest. The bridge appears in the swirling snow ahead.

  “Oh, thank Providence!”

  Clomping up to the apex, I push him across it—and run down the other side.

  The door does not open. Same moon. Same cold night.

  “Oh, no! Oh, no!”

  My mind is shutting down. Giving up. I see little bits of my sanity flying off in all directions like a spinning wheel. With each revolution, I am going. Madness is very close.

  The hornets. The hornets. They fill my head. I stick a finger in my ear and shriek, swearing I feel its crunchy insect body escaping.

  I pull John back up to the center of the bridge and wail, “Please, please help us! Do not let us die!”

  The dogs’ yelp so close the hair on my arms stands.

  “Verity…” John’s lips move, but no sounds come out. For once, we don’t need words as our eyes lock. Our fear is a synchronous, heaving being we both feel.

  We are about to die.

  For being different.

  My legs collapse and I hit the hard wood of the bridge. My courage dries up and I sob, grasping at John’s pant leg. I feel his fingers touch the top of my head.

  Then, a disembodied hand appears, its fingers fervently searching.

  * * *

  The night is beyond black. Every light in the orphanage is finally out. The lighted windows extinguished one at a time over the past hour. The house reminds him of an old man, who’s reluctant, fluttering eyes finally relented to sleep.

  The flashlight’s beam cut through the rows, bouncing in time with his jogging.

  Tonight feels…wrong. Something is up.

  It’s as if the night is holding its breath, waiting, watching.

  Something’s wrong, all right; aside from my mentally abusive job, that I’m emotionally retarded and almost lost all the funding for the house.

  Waves of luminescent color, red and green, seep from the corn’s rows, like the whole field is under some blinding, celestial black-light.

  He hears them. Those bloody bluebirds. Why are they out at night? Abnormal.

  His heart rockets and he walks toward the sound. His mouth waters with anxiety.

  His mind nags this is one of those awful, defining moments.

  An explosion of blue erupts around him. Streaks made of bluebirds whiz past his eyes.

  He stumbles, their unexpected attack causing vertigo. They’re so thick, he’s blinded.

  A tornado of revolving feathers starts at his feet and rises to encircle his head.

  Their trilling songs are too high. He winces and covers his ears.

  And he’s alone again.

  They take flight, like one collective mind, into the cornrows.

  He feels the compulsion. To follow. He obeys, his feet digging in without his mind’s permission.

  Weaving through the rows, they’re leading to the north bridge.

  Longing and apprehension and agitation congeal in his stomach.

  Bits of music waft through the corn and with each a new wave of emotion, and colors.

  A cello calls from far away and is answered by a violin, like two loons exchanging vows.

  Pain is everywhere. It’s palpable, like a breeze—it fills the air like a heady mist.

  “What is this place?”

  The voice of the corn, which is young and old, male and female, multi-layered and clotted—erupts beside his ear. “A place to right the wrongs.”

  His breath puffs out in mini-gasps and his legs automatically bolt further inside.

  Another round of music, from the south. A drum and fife core. The snare drum and piccolo call out a staccato military march.

  Then, what undoubtedly must be his song begins again. Judy Garland’s voice trickles through his blood, chilling it.

  Verity is in trouble.

  He knows it, can feel it to his marrow.

  He launches to a run, winding in and out of the paths, hurtling downed stalks—his only thought, the bridge. The bridge.

  On the apex, Verity crouches, partially visible through the translucent, flexuous door.

  Her mismatched eyes are wild, and her hands pat the entrance, as if searching for an opening. A young, gangly boy stands alongside her, crying. Shaking. With the most pathetic shade of despondent orange. As he moves, his color lingers, sticking to the air, like a comet’s tail.

  Truman drops to his knees, feeling along the cold, hard surface of the door. It’s surface stings, like freezing snow, but he presses his fingertips harder, searching.

  Verity’s sobbing and his heart is fracturing in his chest. Her face appears an inch away—but the door…hundreds of years compressed into the small space between them.

  Glistening, fat teardrop’s bead on her red lashes. They dangle then fall, in a strange slow-motion descent before disappearing into the snow.

  Her mouth pulls a cruel grimace; her lips a frantic trembling mess.

  “Oh, Verity.”

  And he hears them. Dogs. They are after them.

  Hatred sparks, flaring in his chest at the gross injustice; it spirals round in his head, gaining momentum, till all rational thought is incinerated.

  He cocks his fist, slamming into the door, over and over. Blood trickles between his knuckles; he grunts at the snap as one breaks.

  Through the door, the heightened sound of barking dogs. Tracking dogs.

  The realization strikes like a bolt of fire.

  “No. You will live.”

  He rams his shoulder into the ice-door, grimacing at the pain in his broken fingers. He slams it, again and again, feeling the hot-cold pain sear his shoulder as the ice rips it open.

  Finally, the door budges, fracturing down the middle; his fingers part the cold, cracking it wide-open.

  It shudders as it slides; like a displaced, animated glacier.

  His hand thrusts through the crack, his fingers frantically searching for her.

  Truman’s fingertips brush a coarse texture; like a burlap feed-sack.

  The air-door turns flexuous-a rectangular outline, shimmering in the night sky. It ripples as it melts, like the surface of a pool of water.

  Through it, Verity’s moon appears, bright and full in the night sky.

  The door phases again, changing to mist. It revolves and the sound of her sobs and the barks intensify.

  “Verity! Where are you?” Her figure was dimming and brightening in time with the door’s clarity.

  Truman grimaces and plunges both hands into the liquefied air, groping. His fingers find her coarse, long hair.

  Her face turns away. She’s giving up. She turns, ready to bolt off the bridge, away from the dogs. Away from him.

  Gritting his teeth, his fingers reach for her and slip. He lurches forward in panic, grasping her dress with both hands, he heaves.
r />   Her tiny body flies through the door, landing in a heap on his chest, flattening them both against the bridge.

  The color surrounding her is horror-personified; black, spiraling clouds of flashing darkness.

  “Truman! Truman!” her hands convulse with pain. “My brother, get my brother!”

  “What?”

  He turns as the door phases from translucent to transparent. The young man crouches on the other side of the bridge.

  Truman swallows, vaulting forward. Oh, his color…

  The boy’s fear was a pulsing, shuddering, multi-hued monster.

  A crowd of men and snarling dogs arrive simultaneously, hesitating at the bridge’s bottom.

  One man in the crowd locks eyes with Truman—their gaze holds for a brief second, but he looks away, terrified.

  “What devilry be this?” Corwin screams. Veins pop in his neck. “Where has your sister gone? Left you to hang for her deeds?”

  “No! No! She is not a witch!” the boy says. He throws back his trembling shoulders.

  His eyes flick to the revolving door. He gives no other indication that he’s seen it. Protecting her.

  Truman rams the door harder, summoning all his strength. Another finger-bone snaps. The door’s surface glows and glitters; hard as diamonds once again.

  Verity’s ragged breathing catches behind him.

  “John Montague. You are hereby charged with witchcraft, and will be tried before your peers.”

  “No! No!” Verity stumbles in sightless circles.

  Her wail freezes his blood. It is primal and maternal, as if by taking John, they have excised her beating heart from her chest.

  She bends in half, crumpling into a fetal position.

  In desperation, he slams the door again, knowing it’s useless.

  It was a solid, transparent door to nowhere. His shoulder screams in pain.

  She lifts her red eyes, and begins crawling toward the door, pleading, “Please, take me. Not him. Please, merciful Father.”

  It’s a window, now, not a door.

  “John, no, not my John,” Verity sobs.

  He lowers his head, and rams it again; the sound of tinkling glass echoes through the corn.

  Shimmering slivers of light shower down on them, disappearing before they strike the ground.

  Truman tumbles as the door shatters, vaulting forward, sliding down the other side of the bridge as the connection broke; the door disappearing with a clap of thunder.