The Caged Bird Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Caged Bird

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  Other Books by Meg

  by

  Meg Farrell

  Copyright ©2017, M. Farrell

  Farrell Writes, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  ISBN: 0999127810

  ISBN-13: 978-0999127810

  Sister – Sorry I tormented you with this story.

  You’re my best beta reader.

  Dubs – It is my mission to write a story that will

  make you fall in love with reading.

  All my love to you both!

  Acknowledgements

  Cover design: Suzanna Lynn of Funky Book Designs

  http://funkybookdesigns.weebly.com

  Editor: Victoria Miller

  http://www.victoriamillerartist.com

  Formatting: Bridgette O’Hare of Wit & Whimsy Designs

  The sun has been beating on my head for what feels like an eternity. Sweat rolls down my nose and drips onto my lower lip. I’m fairly good at blowing out my breath in time to disperse the drips of sweat. I missed this one, and it’s irritating. Using my semi-clean forearm, I swipe at my mouth and forehead to knock some of the moisture off. I manage to further irritate myself because wiping it off doesn’t feel any better than just letting it roll down.

  I stab the shovel I’m scooping horse manure with into a nearby pile. Satisfied it won’t fall over, I take off my dirty work gloves and reach into my pocket for my handkerchief. I probably shouldn’t call it that. It’s become so worn that it’s simply a piece of threadbare fabric that used to be white. My initials are still embroidered on the corner, but are much more faded than I recall.

  I take a few minutes to catch my breath while blotting the sweat from my face and neck. As I bend over to retrieve my water jug for a drink, I hear the boss man calling for me. “Coen! Get your lazy ass over here!”

  Rolling my eyes, I push my handkerchief and work gloves into the pockets of my coveralls and walk toward him. “Yeah, boss?”

  “Look here, college boy. Big Jim ain’t feeling so hot. We need you to cover for him.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Smitty doesn’t know anything about me, yet he’s always called me college boy. Guess it’s clear that I’m not from a manual labor background, which automatically makes me a college boy. The nickname doesn’t bother me because it’s untrue; it bothers me because he can tell without being told. “Sure. What am I doing?” I ask.

  Flustered, he says, “Knock off for the afternoon, and be behind the big tent at seven tonight for instructions. Bud will be there to help. He’ll show you what to do. Do me a favor, though?”

  I nod.

  Smitty wrings his hat into a knot with his hands. “Just don’t start no trouble, okay?”

  I try to keep my expression under wraps because I know my face is a traitor that reveals everything these days. Somehow, I can’t help the puzzling look I give him before accepting his instructions. “Of course, sir.”

  I walk back to the trailer I share with six other hands. It’s certainly not ideal, but there’s a roof, toilet, and somewhat functional air in the form of a fan. It covers all the basic necessities. As I change into a set of clean clothes and shove the manure-laden coveralls into the makeshift hamper, I recall the niceties of the life I left behind. Things like a humongous, wall-mounted TV, a kitchen bigger than this trailer which was fully stocked at all times, and every video game system I had the whim to play.

  Southern lawyers always do well, but I did better than most. Coen Jenks is a good old southern boy from a good old southern family and graduated from a good old southern law school. Soon after graduation, I moved from Rome, Georgia over to Savannah, where I took a job in one of the largest law firms in the region. Living at the beach was a luxury by itself.

  Five years in, I realized I could do anything, and my client list was growing faster than any other attorney in our practice. Everyone, my family and bosses alike, were thrilled with how I was doing. No one ever questioned how I was doing it. No one ever stopped to think about what the right thing might be. The only thing that mattered was that I was winning cases. No one hires an attorney that loses. If you’re in a bind, criminal or otherwise, you want the guy who can win. I won. Period. It was easy. Hell, it IS easy. Nothing more than a verbal sleight of hand. It’s how the law is interpreted. I could make a jury see it any way I wanted them to see it.

  Until I couldn’t do it anymore. Not the winning; I could always do that. Probably forever. My conscience wouldn’t let me. What no one knew was that I became an insomniac. The methods of winning were killing me slowly. Oh, I put on a good front to hide the slow breakdown that was happening. Finally, I was assigned a case that broke me. I was handed a defendant I couldn’t, morally, defend. I dug into the recesses of my mind to find what they taught us in ethics about what to do. I talked to my mentor about the case. His advice wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

  Feeling trapped, the only solution I could find, the one thing that could comfort me, was to quit. The rub there was that my father and the partners of my firm were tight. I was in too deep to simply quit. I had to leave. Disappear. I couldn’t bear the idea that my father or mother would see me as a weak, a failure. My father would assume I’d cracked. I had, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  Late one night, I left. I didn’t tell anyone that I was leaving. The only thing I took with me was a small suitcase. I started out walking down the sidewalk in front of my house. When I reached the end of the street, I turned toward the bus station. When I got to the bus station, I used the only cash I had in my pocket to buy a ticket going anywhere. No matter how rough the journey was to this point, it was easier than the life that had been built on the backs of my clients’ victims.

  The memory is my driving force. Knowing what I’ve done pushes me to move forward with honest work that lets me feel human again. Blinking my eyes, I snap away from the memories and stare down at my bed as I lift a silent prayer of gratitude. It’s not much, but it’s mine. It’s honest. No one was hurt by the work done to be here. Shaking off the nostalgia, I lie down to try and rest so I can work the evening shift.

  As I approach the main tent, Bud leans against a support pole waiting for me. Bud is a tall, slender man with skin that reminds me of saddle leather. He’s worked outdoors for a long time. Longer than I think I can imagine. He’s a preserved specimen of a bygone era. Dressed in work jeans and a button-down shirt, I see the flash of flame as he lights his cigarette.

  I clear my throat as I approach him. “Hey, Bud.”

  He turns his head toward me and nods. His lack of salutatory response leaves me feeling awkward. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here. Smitty never has me do anything besides take care of the livestock and shovel manure. He said it was the lowest learning curve for a college boy. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing to help him tonight. Bud isn’t chatty and doesn’t seem like he’ll be giving me an explanation anytime soon.

  Shifting from foot to foot as we stand in silence, I look around to take in the setup of the tent. I’m trying to understand the physics of how the ropes keep the tent secure to the poles, and why the poles are spaced the way they are. Analyzing the structure helps me not focus on the empty spac
e between us that seems to be filling up with nothing by the second.

  When I’m ready to start counting the poles for each tent in the entire place for entertainment, Bud throws his cigarette to the ground and stomps on it. Then he says, “This way,” as he walks toward the tent flap that functions as a door.

  I’m not sure if that means I’m supposed to follow him or not, so I follow him. I’ve learned over my time here that I have to read between the lines of every interaction. No one here will provide explicit direction. Like a barely noticeable undercurrent, everyone’s attitude implies the only way to gain respect is by demonstrating expertise or figuring out how to do things. With no previous experience, I fall into the latter category. I’m better now than on my first week, but it’s ridiculously difficult.

  Bud is way ahead of me and moving deftly through the flap before I can catch him. When I reach the flap, I pull it back and step inside. I’m unprepared for what I see. This isn’t some tent; it’s someone’s home. The tent is decorated like an old farmhouse, including a bed, dining table, bookcases, and beautiful lamps. My assumption was that a tent was solely for performance, and I expected it to be less homey. Turning in circles, I take in the high ceilings that slope down toward the ground from a gathered point where it connects to the main support pole in the middle.

  At first, it’s hard for me to imagine how I’m seeing the things I am, and it hits me. The décor is what’s familiar to me. It’s exactly what my grandmother’s house looked like. I shake my head to dislodge the thought because it’s impossible. The blue boy painting hanging beside the bookcase is the piece that locks the puzzle into place.

  “There’s no way,” I whisper to myself.

  Bud snaps, “Coen! Get over here.”

  I turn to see him standing in the doorway to the right of entrance we just came through. When I do, the place shifts, no longer like my grandmother’s. The furniture seems to move around on its own as the place reconfigures itself. I’m confused, but get moving so I don’t get fired.

  I reach Bud and mutter, confused, “What is this place? I saw—”

  Bud grabs my shoulders, cutting me off. “Look, boy, you know where you work, right?”

  I nod.

  “Say it,” he commands.

  I blink. “It’s a…a…freak show.”

  “Right. Do you know all the acts yet?”

  “No. Smitty assigned me to the animals. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last three months.”

  He makes a sound of frustration and says, “Why the hell did he send you? Of all the confounded things!” He’s quiet for a moment and seems to make a decision. “Okay, here it is. Jim ain’t sick. He was nearly beaten to death. They had to send him up to the county hospital. I’m not telling this to scare you, kid. I’m telling you so you’ll be smart. Don’t be stupid. Ya hear me?”

  I nod but don’t know what he means. Nothing makes sense, and my head starts to spin. The feeling reminds me of when I took painkillers for a broken arm.

  “This tent belongs to Lyra and her brother, Jared,” Bud explains. “They’re the moneymakers. Well, she is,” he corrects. “You’re to watch the side-wall to keep the townies out. Got it?”

  “Why would they try to get in?”

  “You’ll understand when you see her perform. I can’t explain it. It’s like she casts a spell on the place. Hell, for all I know, that’s what she is…a witch. Speaking of, here, take these. You’re gonna need them, boy.”

  I hold my hand out to take whatever Bud’s offering. Earplugs. Normally, I try to keep reactions from showing on my face—old lawyering habits. Only this is so bizarre that it must be all over my face since my forehead creases when I ask, “What are these for?”

  “Boy! Have you not been listening? Use the earplugs. She’s going to sing, and when she does the place is going to get out of hand. The whole damn carnival had to pull up stakes after one of her shows before. Old Man Lucas makes a ton of money because when the townies recover, the gossip spreads. We fill up every night because of her. Don’t you get it yet?” Bud’s face turns a deeper red as he frowns. He’s frustrated with me and on the verge of raving like a mad man.

  I realize that he seriously believes the things he’s saying, and I’ve seen a man completely absorbed in wild beliefs before. “Okay. Got it. Use the earplugs. Keep everyone away from her. Anything else?”

  He exhales a deep breath and nods. “Don’t talk to her. I don’t want to see you end up like Big Jim. He’s nowhere near as young and handsome as you are, and he’s in the hospital because he was foolish. That brother of hers has a serious temper. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for her. The rules are the rules.” His eyes are tender by the time he finishes.

  Something in his tone scares me. A sensation creeps through my chest, making me feel a hundred pounds heavier. There’s real fear in his eyes—the kind you see when you’re powerless, and you know bad things are about to happen. Suddenly, the room is smaller than it was a moment ago. It gets even smaller when Bud leaves and the flap opens as a large, broad-shouldered man comes through it.

  He’s not as old as Bud, but not as young as me. He carries himself as though the world rests on his shoulders, which are slightly hunched and makes it clear that he’s even taller than he appears. I watch him go to the counter near the kitchen and pour a drink. I get the impression that I’m watching something I shouldn’t.

  Clearing my throat to let him know I’m here, I open my mouth to speak when he says, “They brought a new guard fast this time.”

  “Yes. I’m Coen,” I state nervously.

  He sighs and comes over to me where I can see his face. He has a square jaw with light scruff, and his nose looks like it’s been broken a few times. What strikes me is the coldness in his eyes. He’s mean. I feel guilty for judging him so quickly, but I know his type from my previous life. Chills run over my body when he says, “Did you get the ground rules?”

  I nod. “Use the earplugs, keep the townies out, and don’t be stupid.”

  The corner of his mouth turns up, not to smile. He sneers. “The most important part you need to remember is don’t be stupid. My sister is beautiful and off limits. She’s not interested in roustabouts or idiot townies. You’d do well to keep your eyes on the wall and not on her.”

  “You got it.”

  His sneer fades as he provides further instruction. “My name is Jared. My sister is Lyra. You’re here to be her security, Coen. You’ll accompany her to the stage, keep people away from her, and see her back into her quarters without harm. Easy enough?”

  “I think I can manage.”

  Jared turns toward the flap he came in a moment ago, and holds it open for me to follow him. I go into the next room and immediately look around to start assessing where the security challenges might present themselves. We’re moving to the middle of the room when he says, “You’ll need those earplugs now.”

  I still don’t understand the need for the plugs. If I’m to provide security, don’t I need to have all of my senses available? Regardless, I do as I’ve been instructed and put the plugs snugly into my ears. None of this makes any sense to me, and my father’s advice about practicing law echoes in my mind. “You need to let go of what makes sense to do what you’re told.”

  Our progress slows as we approach a shiny, gold cage in the middle of the expansive room. It looks like a typical bird cage, except for its size. It’s human sized. I draw on the objectivity I learned as a defense attorney and try to reserve judgment until I see more. The cage is easily six feet tall, and equally wide. In the center, I see her. Instantly, I know this must be Lyra.

  She’s moving back and forth on the perch that hangs down from the middle of the cage. The seat and floor of the cage are padded and covered in a dark, navy blue velvet. I stop to take in the surroundings. I can’t see any doors except for the one we came through. I’ve always assumed tents are relatively simple in their construction, but this one has a labyrinth-like interior structu
re.

  I watch as Jared walks over and talks to his sister through the bars of the cage. She doesn’t look at him, only swings robotically and occasionally nods in response. When he finishes, he turns to look at me with those cold eyes of his. I swallow hard and hold eye contact. Finally, I manage to nod as a way of letting him know I’ll do what I’ve been tasked to do. He doesn’t acknowledge it, and leaves in a hurry.

  Lyra’s dark curly hair bounces around her head as she swings, as if it has a life all its own. I’ve never seen hair move that way. Her skin glows, reflecting like a prism, even in the dim lighting of this space. Her sequined costume casts the light around the room in falls of rainbows. The effect is startlingly beautiful. I’m mesmerized watching her, and my body has gone rigid. I’m frozen in place and a chill spreads over me. I want to move closer to her, but an alarm bell sounds in my mind, preventing me from moving.

  Lyra stops swinging and slides her hand down the support bars of the perch as she turns to look over her shoulder at me. Her eyes pierce me through the heart. I feel as if I’ve been stabbed. The sensation seems real and I grab at my heart to make the pain stop. Her eyes are green, but glow like lamps in the dark. She doesn’t smile or give any other expression that would help me understand her or know what I’m supposed to do now. She just stares.

  When the ache in my heart eases, I start walking toward her. My body is moving but my brain screams for me to stop. My breathing increases until I’m panting. I fight the panic welling up in my throat and the pull that drags me ever closer to her.

  I’m powerless to stop. Her eyes and pale skin are otherworldly. I’ve never seen anyone like her before. I’m standing beside her cage when I discover I’m able to move my hands, which snap up to my head in an attempt to staunch the headache that’s building. My pulse pounds in my ears behind the plugs, and I fall to my knees in pain. A hot streaking pain like electric shock runs through me. It feels like someone is using a hot knife to remove my brain through my ears. When the pain reaches its peak, I rip the earplugs out and gasp for air.