The sky was tinted a tangerine hue as the sun descended. Wind whipped at the scarecrow’s plaid jacket, causing it to thud against his waist. A mere feet away, a woman rattled a broom high above her head, running at a murder of crows who were happily fralicing in the squash field.
“Get out! Shoo!” she said, her face red from anger, or perhaps, running.
The crows, upon sensing danger, took to the air in unison, as though they had trained for such a moment many times.
The woman muttered to herself under her breath, cursing. Then she turned to the scarecrow, her eyes narrowing on his masquerade mask and straw fingers.
“You!” she said, pointing an accusatory finger in his face. “You’re not cut out to be a scarecrow!” She said, throwing her arms up in the air and dropping the broom at the same time.
The scarecrow remained where he was, unmoving, unspeaking and altogether, not responding to her at all.
She crumpled to her knees, palms on her face, weeping dry sobs. Then she stilled, her sobs turning to soft laughter. She peered up at the bundle of straw and old clothing that had been fastened by her own two hands. He was a handsome scarecrow, she thought. It’s too bad he can’t move. She laughed to herself at the absurdity of such a thought. Spells were not meant to be used on such trivial matters. Besides, she should have been able to deal with this issue herself- how hard was it to keep a handful of birds out of a garden? She put a hand to her forehead, dizzy now from running. Or maybe she was getting a headache from constantly worrying about those birds- an actual, real life, headache.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t a trivial thing. She had lost sleep thinking about the crops that were lost due to the crows and other vermin; the bread she had burned countless times because she ran out to chase the birds and forgot it in the oven; the toll it was taking on her already strained heart.
She heaved herself to her feet, her eyes still on the scarecrow. No it wasn’t a trivial matter. If he could move life would be manageable. She dusted the skirt of her dress off and glanced around to be sure no one was walking along the road at that moment. Not many people passed by in a day, she lived far enough out that mostly farmers and their children wandered on their way to town or school.
She saw no one as far as her eye could see over the fields and sparse trees. Even looking back towards her little farm house and the barns no one was there. Her gaze fell on the scarecrow again, this time with a determination about her that was vaguely frightening. Then whispers spilled from her mouth in a language forgotten by but a few. Soft and hurried as she didn’t want anyone to see her out there, enchanting.
The scarecrow didn’t move, but a few pieces of straw fell from his sleeves. The woman smiled a warm smile- a satisfied and relieved smile. She had planted the seed, and now all she needed to do was wait.
But she didn’t have to wait long, for that night the scarecrow began the journey from inanimate object to flesh. His straw was traded for muscle and blood, and the wooden stake which propped him up was replaced with bone and ligaments.
By the time dawn arrived, he was a puddle of a human, sprawled on the dirt along the squash and pebbles. And the first thing he saw was the slick black feathers of a crow as the murder prodded him curiously.
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