Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 23



Truman drops the sleeping bag on the bridge’s apex and paces.

“I have to get it together.”

He jogs down the planks, heading into the rows. Surely if the wretched door is about to open, he will hear some indication. See the second moon in the sky.

Dusk is falling and his mind keeps taunting him.

What will you do if you cannot see her again?

“I don’t know.”

The fact is plain, he’s forever altered. If he can’t save her—he will have to start again.

In everything. His whole life.

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming.

One bluebird has arrived. It tries to land on his trainer.

“What the—?”

Somewhere far off, the music begins, like a badly tuned radio.

Another bird arrives and another. A row of them are sitting on the corn like a bizarre string of animated party lights.

He follows them, and they sing in approval.

He’s back at the bridge. And…

His stomach plummets.

The journal is back at the apex.

He flies up the boards and they shiver, alive once more. His shaking hands crack it open.

~ ~ ~

Oh, my love. Where have you gone? I lost you, along the way. I fear it’s over, True. I’ve escaped. But it’s freezing. I have no shelter. My hands…the flesh is changing in the cold. I cannot stay awake. I will not survive the night. Remember me, True. Please—don’t give up your search. Love exists. Live your life, give away your heart—but keep a tiny portion, only for me. I’ve given you all of mine. Know that its last beats sounded your name.

* * *

Hands lift me roughly as someone haphazardly tucks me into his chest. I don’t care. I’m so grateful for the warmth. I can no longer feel my left hand. It’s like someone cut it from me and cast it aside.

A frantic thought cuts through my dark mind. I peer behind him, looking for the journal.

Tears leak down my cheeks and I smile. “It went through. It went through.” My voice is a whisper.

“She’s mad.” The man carrying me proclaims.

“She knows full well her mind.” Constable Corwin. “Don’t let her feminine figure addle your mind.”

I laugh quietly. I’m no longer afraid of him. I’ve accepted I’ll die. Hate has replaced the fear. I’m not sure which is worse.

“Where is my brother?”

“You will see him soon enough.”

We enter Salem Town. Crowds upon crowds follow behind us, trying to catch a glimpse of me.

It’s so ridiculous. I, who was once invisible, now cannot hide anywhere. The center of attention.

A house, our destination, looms ahead. I memorize the position of the entrance; the direction, the number of doors.

We enter the house rumored to sit atop the Witch Dungeon.

We follow Corwin’s back down a dank staircase.

Manacles, chains, iron. Extra stocks litter the entryway.

My heart shudders as I stare at the prisoner’s faces. Their eyes are dead as they’ve already given away their hope.

“Verity! Oh, laws, Verity!”

“John!”

I am coming apart. My heart falls to pieces. I am crying and ranting and my hands are fluttering as my fingers splay to touch him.

Corwin shoves me into the cell beside him.

My hands instantly grasp both of his. He’s crying. I’m crying. I stare so gratefully into those chocolate brown eyes.

“Your joy will be short-lived.”

But I barely hear him. His voice is far away and unimportant.

“Oh, John. Just stay close, as close to me as you can.”

He snuggles up to the bars between us and I wrap my arms about him as best I can manage.

Somewhere, the jail door clangs shut.

* * *

The journal is strapped to his chest with a piece of leather from the barn he’s fashioned into a carrier.

The sleeping bag isn’t touching the cold, and his body convulses. He can no longer cry.

He’s numb, now. Which is better. His mind’s closed off his emotions—keeping them at bay like a rabid dog.

He slips the sleeping bag onto the bridge and crawls inside it. His mind and body are exhausted from the emotional thrill ride of the past twenty-four hours.

He closes his eyes, unsure if he should sleep.

The birds linger unnaturally despite the cold, like bright-blue sentries all around the bridge.

Will the sound of it opening wake me?

He knew he would be unable to keep his eyes open. He was spent.

He stopped fighting, but not listening. Night breezes rose, whipping his hair, breathing across his face.

Whispers, snippets of conversations were like points in space, all around his head, by his feet. Like the disembodied voices have returned.



Fire in the hole!



The baby is gone, Miss.



It isn’t time yet.



Jameson, where are you?



The trial be set for the Montagues; two days time.



His eyelids instantly snapped open. He sat straight up, whipping his head toward the door. It shimmered like crusted ice, backlit by sunshine. Sunshine from Verity’s side.

* * *