The Springborn

SABELLA

APRIL 29, 1886

MORNING

S pring came on the appointed day in March but waited until April to burst forth in all its glory, greening the trees and muddying the ground. Now, with May only days away, Sparrow and I delve into the forest to throw away my antlers and to forage for mushrooms and ramps.

My daughter’s head is now level with my shoulders, and her figure is beginning to blossom with the curves of womanhood. Some weeks, she matures little. Other times, she’ll age years in a single night. The process is less predictable and more vexing than the weather.

When we venture out, we take care to go early, while the other mine wives are still occupied with morning chores. Always, I cover Sparrow in layers and scarves so that anyone catching a glimpse of her might mistake her for Mother and not a girl aged twelve or thirteen. She copies Mother’s slight limp and assumes an old woman’s hump-shouldered posture until trees surround us and the only eyes watching belong to squirrels, rabbits, and birds.

An eagle screeches over the treetops, and I lift my gaze in hope. If it is one of the twins, perhaps she carries a message from Robbie or Yonaz. I confess that I long for news that my friends are safe and settled again.

Sparrow points skyward. “Mama, is that one of the twins?”

The eagle circles once more before soaring out of sight. “No, my dear. It was only an ordinary bird.”

“Do you think our friends have forgotten us?”

“No, never.” I crouch and pluck a few ramps from the ground.

“I hope you’re right.” Sparrow lowers the basket to receive the leaves and says no more.

Bit by bit, we fill the basket, taking what joy we can from the fresh air, the whispering leaves, and our companionship.

We are ready, Sparrow and I. Ready to flee my parents’ hateful stares and cruel words. Ready to escape endless, thankless scrubbing and cooking. As Father reminds me almost daily, matrimony is not an option for a person like me. Which is fine, because the thought of marriage sickens me. The life I’d inherit as a miner’s wife would differ little from the life I live now, all scrimping and coal dust—and the terrifying probability of bringing one hungry baby after another into the circle of suffering. I imagine a dozen hollow-eyed children staring up at me, begging for scraps, and I shudder.

Sparrow and I have better plans.

Unbeknownst to my parents, we have earned and saved handfuls of coins by peddling foraged woodland plants to neighbors and taking in mending. Early in the day, before my sawn antlers inch up, I do the deliveries while Sparrow hides at home. She has even started a little business venture of her own, concocting cough syrups and soothing balms from local herbs, drawing on some innate knowledge that must be part of her Springborn gifts. Mother’s daily alcohol-induced naps and Father’s long shifts have made our pursuits possible. The tin tucked under my mattress contains almost enough money to enable us to strike out on our own.

“Tell me again how it will be in our new home,” Sparrow says as we start back toward town.

“Soon—next week or the week after—on a good, dry morning, we’ll set out after Father leaves for the mine. We’ll go through the woods, skirt around Black Rock Corners, and make our way to the train station at Cairntown. We’ll buy tickets to Lancaster and find a boarding house to live in until I find a good job. After that, we’ll rent a little place of our own. We’ll have bread and cheese for supper whenever it pleases us. We’ll sit up late and tell tales, and no one will shout or curse at us ever again.”

“And you can have antlers when you please,” Sparrow says. “I do miss your lovely antlers.”

“On days we stay in, yes, I will keep the antlers. And you can spend hours decorating them with paper birds and bows if you like.”

“I can hardly wait.” She smiles and reaches for my hand. She holds on tightly until we’re standing on the doorstep of my parents’ house.

As I reach for the doorknob, she tugs the scarf away from her mouth and leans over to kiss my cheek.

“How did I earn that fine gift?” I ask.

“By being the best mother in the world,” she says sweetly.

The door swings open. Mother slouches over the table, snoring with her cheek pressed to the scarred wood. Inches from her head, stand a neat row of blue bottles labeled “Doctor Purcell’s Curative Elixir.” Beside them, the little tin in which I hid our savings lies on its side, its lid pried off.

Emptied.

Sparrow gasps and grabs my arm hard.

I turn and pull her close as sobs shake her thin frame. “Hush, dearest. We will start saving again right away. Summer will bring us so many berries and greens to sell that we’ll be rich as kings in no time. Our plans are not ruined forever, only delayed. Hush now.”

She feels small in my arms, and yet too large. Too near womanhood. Too close to elderliness, decline, and death. I hold her tighter, breathing in her sweet, clean scent, desperate to stop her from aging her way into the grave before we can escape this place.