The Scarecrow… and the Scythe
The boy was scared out of his mind. He ran in terror, soaked with sweat, his heart pounding hard in his ears and chest. It felt like it might explode at any moment inside him for he was exhausted from having never run so hard and so far in his life, yet his terror drove him harder than his body's desire for rest.
"Father," he croaked out in horror. "Brother…"
He tripped and crashed over an unseen obstacle. He thudded painfully to the ground and skidded to a stop. His whole body shook up and down from the enormous, heaving gasps of air his body demanded, as if it could never get enough.
TMP. The boy jolted upright his eyes wide and ears strained. The noise… it meant…
He was running again. He had heard it and something else: A caw; a flapping of wings.
"Father…"
Suddenly, his legs went flying out from under him. This time he felt that he had been physically struck by something. It had come in a sweeping arc, wide and low, striking him near the ankles. He fell flat, and then the pain hit in full. He screamed, feeling blood flow and fly with each pulse of his heart. TMP. TMP.
"Father," he sobbed trying to pull himself along with hands and knees, tears flowing with wild abandon, his voice choked, every sense screaming in agony.
"Oof," he groaned as a foot that was not a foot stomped upon his back. The hardened point on his back… it didn't belong to his father or anything human. His head was yanked back by the hair so he was forced to stare at the night sky with its stars. Then he screamed because it was all he had the ability to do left. And he was still screaming when his throat was cut.
. . . . .
That strange old thing, what ever was it doing out there? That was the question the farmer had. It had bothered him for some time since he had first noticed it. The man who used to own this land; he had a funny idea about his field. In it was an interesting scarecrow. Interesting was the word in particular for there was a scythe, rusted by the elements, dangling from one limb. He had pulled the unusual thing off and sold it for a new tool with which to toil his trade.
The new scythe hung in his tool shed. His son and daughter had funny things to say about it at times. That, and the scarecrow, which was the strangest part.
"It's so big. Are you sure it's safe to use? I saw another farmer who uses a sickle rather than this. Why do you use it daddy?"
"Because daddy is strong, and daddy will not make excuses about cutting the grass or harvesting the wheat."
"Dad… I don't like the scarecrow. He bothers me. I swear he looks right at me."
"Well that is okay because Mister Scarecrow is not alive. He is only there to bother the birds. He keeps them away."
"But dad, he doesn't drive them away. They come and sit on him without concern whatsoever. It's almost like they like him. And whenever they rest on him, they also look at me. I swear that all the birds do that when they are with him."
"Why do they do that daddy? Why aren't they scared of him?"
To that the man had no answer. Why would the birds not be frightened away? The question he had that bothered him was why a scythe was hanging from the thing out in the field. Nobody he had ever known ever would do such a thing.
. . . . .
The farmer was happy with his family, his wife and kids. Life went on well and peaceful. Autumn was coming. It could be felt in the air. A number of unusual things were to be noted, all strange and more disturbing and unusual than the last: the scythe, the home, and the birds.
The house seemed to whisper and make strange sounds. In all the time that he had been here, the farmer had never once lost sleep. Now he lost plenty, as did the rest of his family. The animals seemed a little different in their behavior to.
They avoided the field, something they never had before. In fact, nothing approached it now. The dogs had not been inside to chase off any thieves after the corn or other plants, nor had anything else. The insects, unnoticed by anyone, didn't go inside it either. Nothing had entered or disturbed the field in the least. It was a sign that there would be quite the bountiful harvest this year. But there was something off about it, something that scratched at the back of the mind.
The scythe was missing. It made no sense and he knew that the kids had done nothing with it. His wife, she did a thorough search, just like all the rest of them. Where could it have gone? It was missing… as was the scarecrow. When had it vanished? And then there was the birds.
They kept appearing in greater numbers by the day, and they didn't leave. They did not make any noise, just sat there, stared at you or at each other, ruffled their feathers, but never moved on.
Then one day it was back; the scarecrow was back. That night was different. He had seen enough. He went out into the field as the sun set and stared at it. "What exactly are you, you straw-stuffed mystery you? Hmm? What exactly are you?"
The birds were gone as well. They had been a large cloud all over the place for a while, and then they had simply vanished. That was nice, but unusual. The animals had been strangely quiet. The dogs seemed nervous, and the cows were not their cheerful selves, nor the bulls aggressive, but rather meek.
The air had a funny feeling to it as the night began to fall. Winter was not on its way just yet, no, it was something else. He quietly checked over everything, just feeling a need for security. Checked the wall of the shed. No, the scythe was not back, of all the things that had returned.
He walked back to the house. On the path stood a lone crow. It stared at him with an unnerving gaze. "Oh, move you," he said, slightly uncomfortable. He attempted to move it with his boot, but it actually flapped back into the same position and pecked at the offending thing. This was most unusual and aggressive behavior. He tried to move around it, but the bird kept hopping in the way. The bird unexpectedly exploded off the ground in a flurry of claws and stabbing beak at the man's face. The farmer yelled and was forced to shield himself. He yelled and swatted at the attacker until he found a sturdy piece of wood and swung with all his might.
The bird fell with a cloud of bloodstained feathers and a broken neck. Breathing ragged and bleeding from scratches on his arms and a peck or two on his hands, the man stumbled back towards his house. Then he noticed the light. The sun was not out but the moon was. What was that light? Coming… the direction from… the house!
He forgot everything. He ran with blind abandon. The light only meant one thing: Fire! His wife and children! They were inside and surely didn't know! His running feet brought him to the house and his wife screaming in mad hysteria. That was when heard over the fire the sound and saw why she was not rushing into the blaze. She was being pecked and clawed at by more crows. He seized a shovel and beat at them until, finally, those not injured or dead dispersed.
His wife's face was a horror, with empty bloodied eye sockets. The birds had gone for them first. "Th-th-the… the children…" she gasped in his arms. He howled in fear and terror attempting to fight his way inside by the front door, but the flames choked every window and entrance. He couldn't get in. He tripped over something and fell near his wife. He returned to his knees and gazed in pained helplessness at the horror of his beloved home and the children he once had. Only then did his eyes notice what he had tripped over: an oil lantern, with shattered glass. The wooden building never stood a chance.
He turned back to the field… the scarecrow was gone from where it had hung. A long wooden pole like the scarecrow's "foot" stabbed out of the corn stalks into the dirt. This was followed by an unexpected, yet familiar, site, the missing scythe, now held in inhuman hands as the corn parted and closed. The scarecrow was standing before him and his blind, groaning, wife eyes blazing with green helfire and a nasty gash of a smile on its features.
It opened its mouth to reveal that its features appeared like great jagged teeth on an animal that slid together. With a slight bend of the knees, the scarecrow thrusted a taloned finger and the edge of the field exploded with a great cawing murder of black feathers and talons. The birds savaged the woman and bowled the farmer over as they charged him en masse. They swirled in a great black cloud over the house not minding the choking smoke, embers, or flames. Their cawing and the roar of the fire blended into a terrible chorus that caused the man to clap his hands over his ears to attempt to shut out the awful noise. His squinted eyes were unable to shut out seeing his wife savagely attacked by more crows, blood flying, nor could his hands cut out the awful laughter of the scarecrow, standing with its arms spread wide, just soaking it all in, embracing the death and chaos.
His spirit broke and the man turned, maddened and overwhelmed by fear, laughter pursuing him. He fled the path only to hear a howl of joy behind him. He turned enough to see the house with the cawing mass of birds swirling over it and the field, but it was the scarecrow chasing him down with long, gangly strides that stroked the flame of his terror even brighter. Those eyes! The teeth! The scythe! He must not die at the hands of this thing! He mustn't! A stench caught his nose and he vomited but didn't stop running.
He risked another glance back. Gone! Where? The scythe came swinging through the stalks at the right side and the farmer attempted to dodge to the left. He was partially successful, but the finely honed and sharpened blade still drew blood. He groaned from where he landed and began to drag himself. The scarecrow chuckled and promptly stepped on him. The smell was one of rotting things. It was hay, farm animals, and all manner of vegetation; all of it rotten and eaten of foulness.
"You want to know what I am?" spoke the scarecrow in a muffled voice choked by hay. "The last people here found out, just like you."
His head was pulled up so that he was forced to stare into those awful, awful eyes. "This field is mine. Everything here is mine. It's just us, and that is how it always is. The last ones here we killed and feasted on, and we shall do the same with you."
The farmer shuddered as sweat trickled down his face to sting his eyes and soak his clothes anew. His mind was suddenly filled with visions of dead livestock, of crows feasting on remains, of burning homes, of slaughtered babies, and all manner of death. "Thank you for this," smiled the jagged mouth of the scarecrow, waving the blade of the scythe in the man's face. "I was wanting for a sharper blade, but allow me to assure you that there is one that never grows dull and it is always with me. Fear. Nothing cuts sharper than it."
The scarecrow slit the man's throat and then the birds descended upon the corpse, tearing skin to expose tendons, muscle, sinew, while the fire that the scarecrow had started burned away the house to nothing but ashes. A crow came to rest on the scythe. "Yes it's just us," said Fiddlesticks, rubbing a finger across the bird's head and down its blood-spattered beak. "And we shall kill and eat the next ones unwise enough to come here. After all, this is ours. Only ours."