The Springborn

SABELLA

JULY 6 TO JULY 7, 1886

N ight peeks through the windows of the abandoned, two-room cottage. Calder brought us here earlier when it became clear that Sparrow was too ill to travel all the way back to the farm without stopping. Hundreds of stars wink at me before I turn away from the panes to check on Sparrow.

I lift the candlestick from the table and tread softly across the room. My feet are bare but the floorboards are smooth. On a pallet of blankets near the fireplace, Sparrow still breathes—albeit shallowly. Not far from her, Robbie and Calder doze on the floor without blankets. I love them both dearly for giving all the blankets to Sparrow.

Crickets chirp both outside and in. I am heavy with fatigue yet so wide awake that I wonder if I will ever sleep again. I set the candlestick on the mantel and walk around the edges of the room, accompanied by my ceaseless thoughts and worries. Keeping watch as mothers have surely done since the very dawn of time.

I think back to how we came to be here. Calder parked the wagon alongside the road. This time, Robbie carried Sparrow as Calder led us past a grove of ancient evergreens and through a knee-deep creek. We traipsed through a grassy clearing, a neglected apple orchard, and an overgrown flower garden. The stone cottage was half hidden by ivy and brush. I wondered how Calder knew of its existence, but did not ask. Perhaps Delphine brought him here as a child.

In spite of all its dust and cobwebs, I fell in love with the cottage the instant I saw it. Perhaps I had some foreshadowing dream of it long ago, for it feels familiar to me.

Sometime before dawn, I settle into a rocking chair near the hearth.

When next I open my eyes, the brightness of the morning startles me. My eyes seek out Calder. He’s sitting on the floor beside Robbie, who’s still asleep. He shakes his head as if to caution me. When I look for Sparrow, the familiar shape of her body has vanished.

Upon the wrinkled blankets and empty clothes perches a tiny brown and white bird. A perfect sparrow.

For a moment, I cannot breathe. Cannot move.

The sparrow, my Sparrow, flies toward the door. She lands at the threshold and waits, plaintively eyeing me and Calder in turn. Finally, he rises and walks toward her.

His hand clutches the doorknob. He looks in my direction, but I doubt he can see through his tears. “Sabella?”

The little bird cocks her head to one side as she waits for my answer. I want to beg her to stay, to change back. But this is not about what I want; it is about what she needs. I hold tightly to the arms of the chair and say, “Let her go.”

Calder opens the door. Sparrow takes wing.

“Goodbye, my dearest,” I whisper.