Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 6



Who are you? Where are you? Your words…well, I could’ve written them myself. I am so very sorry about your parents. But they obviously taught you well—your love for your brother shines in every word. I, too, am listening. What could I do—to help you? What is your name?

~ ~ ~

I’m very frightened, writer. There is something wicked happening in our town. People are being accused, and hanged. And—well, not only am I different on the inside, I am different on the outside. My eyes—are unmatched. People have taunted me for as long as I can recall. Today—I heard their whispers as I passed by. So many names for my brother and I.

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Reader, hanged, really? Are you serious? What matters, is who you are. And by your words, it’s evident—you are a pure, pure soul. One undeserving of all this unkindness. I—I never knew my mother. She left me, at an orphanage. Truth be told…I’ve never known a home. So, although your home is lost—keep it close to your heart—to carry you through—when these others ridicule you.

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Writer, I have not heard such kind words, for so many years. I hope, good sir, you find your home. Everyone does have one. But sometimes, it’s not within four walls. But within your heart.

...I feel as if I live in my head. In my own dream world. Never confessing what I really feel to anyone. I feel I’m on a dangerous edge. That I can no longer contain my thoughts.

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…I live in my thoughts too. No one I know…thinks like me. Sees the world as I do.

Reader. I must meet you. I have not dated anyone…in years. I never seem capable of small talk. How do I start a conversation? Hi. I am a complete hot mess? We’ve already shared the deep dark recesses inside…I feel I must meet you. Please.

~ ~ ~

Writer. I don’t know if that would be proper. But I must admit—I want to. I find myself thinking of your words all day long. I cannot focus, and find myself wishing. Wishing too much, for too many impossible things. All of which concern you. A man I have never laid eyes on.

~ ~ ~

Reader (what is your name!) nothing is impossible. Well, some things are…but one must hope. Hope is at times, all we have. And as to convention—I have lived my whole life on society’s fringes. Convention is for the weak.

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…her blood…was all over my hands. I still see it there—in my dreams I scream and scream, but it won’t wash off. The stain is permanent.

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…the second orphanage was bad.

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Tell me. I’m listening.

~ ~ ~

…there were cockroaches, under the covers. They cut a hole in the second floor, and put a burn barrel beneath it—to keep us warm. It was so cold. I wore my boots to bed.

~ ~ ~

Oh, writer. I wish I could be there. To hold your hand.

~ ~ ~

We must meet. Tell me when.

~ ~ ~

I-I’ve never done anything…improper. But…yes, I shall meet you.

~ ~ ~

Meeting won’t be wrong. I promise.

~ ~ ~

I will have to come at night. At dusk?

~ ~ ~

On the top of the bridge?

~ ~ ~

On the top of the bridge.



* * *

Verity



I stare at the sun. Its orange glow just visible over the tops of the corn. Only for a moment, and it’s gone. The night birds are calling as I reach the bridge.

My heart falls. I look around, past the bridge, through the rows. No sign of him anywhere.

I hear my mother’s voice, scolding, Verity, you do not know this man. Or his family. He may steal you, hurt you.

“No. I don’t think so Momma.”

My heart beats hard, and I wish, again. I care not if he is old. Older than even my master. Or if he’s ugly as a troll. It is who he is. I just wish to talk to him, to be near him.

I stand on the bridge, holding my breath, still turning in a circle, searching.

My boot kicks something.

The box.

The strange, clear case that houses the journal. It was not there a moment ago. I shiver, still not convinced this is not the work of the Man in Black.

I crack it open.

~ ~ ~

Where are you? Why didn’t you come?

~ ~ ~

My stomach flips. I hastily scribble in the book, place it in the container and kick it.

It slides over the top…and is gone.

“Where are you?”

I hear his voice, just like the first day in the corn. It sounds far away. Like it’s floating upwards, out of a deep well.

“I’m here!” I flinch, and quickly turn as a flock of birds—those odd bluebirds, take flight.

I hold perfectly still, entranced. There are so many, for a moment the sky is blotted out.

“I can’t find you.” His voice is closer. Like he’s beside me.

“Keep talking. I can hear you now.” I bite my lip. “Your voice is lovely.”

I hear the smile in his. “You stole my line.”

“Verity! Where are you, girl?”

“Oh no, my mistress is calling. I must go. I am so sorry. Please—can we try again?”

“Your mistress?”

“I have to go. Write me soon.”

* * *