Free Where Bluebirds Fly by Brynn Chapman Page A

drumbeats fill the air. Villagers flee from all around.
    Her father hauls a little boy over his shoulders, and grasps her hand, vaulting her into a cabin. He throws her mother a gun. The boy is wailing behind her legs.
    He feels her fear, bordering on insanity. The Micmaq burst through the door.   A tomahawk flies, burying itself in her father’s chest. He falls to one knee.
    The Indian wrenches his hair with one hand, and with the other, scalps the tomahawk across his skull. Skinning him like a hunter skins a rabbit.  
    The girl, her, drops to the ground, and the boy scrambles around her neck like a frightened animal. His wailing doesn’t stop.
    Her mother is wrenched from her side, and she wails as loud as the boy.
    A shudder, another volt.  
    She stands in the center of a circle. Grown now. A circle of girl’s chant. ‘Say goodbye to one eye, say goodbye to one eye.’
    One throws an apple, aimed at her mismatched eyes.
    And then a barrage of rotted fruits whiz by as she ducks. She darts, back and forth, trying to escape the circle.
     
    A jab to the chest, and he can see her face again.
    She is utterly beautiful. His breath catches. He feels his hands warming. And can suddenly feel her skin.
    I can feel her skin.  
    The door whirls, and pops, and disappears.
    Our heads clank together.
    * * *
    His lips finally find mine. I feel his hands around my waist, gripping me tightly. I breathe in, and I feel so alive, my blood rushing to every piece of me. Waking me from a terrible sleep.
    “Are you all right? Oh bloody—look what I’ve done to your lip!”  
    And he stares down at me. His blue-green, almond shaped eyes scrutinize the lump rising on my cheek. He winces, forehead wrinkling under dark, untidy hair.
    “Can you talk?” His fingers brush away the trickle of blood from the side of my mouth. His face is unsure. “Did you, see anything, while we were stuck there?”
    His touch is exceedingly gentle, like the brush of a feather. I shiver, and an unfamiliar longing roars at my core. I am forgetting to speak, gaping at him like an idiot.
    “I-I’m intact. In pain, but I will survive. And yes, I saw many things.”
    “Me, too.”
    His thin lips break into a relieved grin, turned up on one side. It takes my breath away. I haven’t seen such a carefree smile since I was a child.
    He sobers quickly, his eyes roving over me as if checking for more injuries.
    “I’m so glad yer all right. And so glad yer real . I’m not mental after all.”
    The brow wrinkles again.   His right eye is swelling from the impact. I stand on tip-toes, my lips almost touching it before I clench my teeth, and pull back.  
    He stands back, examining my clothes. “Do you work at a history-comes-alive place?” His right eyebrow rises in question. The smell of him is over powering. Cleaner than any man I’d ever been near, yet decidedly masculine. I swallow again, fighting my completely irrational urges. My mind races a streak of impossible thoughts, leaving me feeling like a common strumpet.  
    “What is that ?” His lips purse in concern, as he gazes up at two moons. His expression changes, to something that looks like acceptance. “Those are the clothes you wear every day, aren’t they?”
    Shame reddens my face. I absently stroke my dress. “Yes, I am a servant now. I was once a gentleman’s daughter, but that seems another life ago.”
    Comprehension dawns on his face—that he’s embarrassed me. He quickly takes my hand, to stop its fidgeting.
    He steps toward me, boldly returning his arms to my waist. “That wasn’t what I meant. I am so pleased you’re here. That doesn’t matter to me. Do you remember seeing me before? That night in the corn?”
    “Of course.” My face flushes again. I must be bold.
    This may be like a fae tale, and no doubt, my time with him will be limited. Like everything good I’ve ever known. “I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks. Since I found your journal.”
    His eyes widen.