A/N: Thank you for the awesome response to what was originally a random thought as I read a lovely Scarecrow story to my class:D
Special, special thanks to my dear friends johnsarmylady and matsloved1 for looking this over. And Ennui Enigma and JAL for providing some dark, fertile words that grow and blossom in my overactive imagination. Thank you my dears:)
Gather close my children, because this story haunts even the teller of the tale. Draw the curtains closed, hold your loved ones close. Let us begin.
2. The Rustle of Crow's Wings
For six years the Earth revolved around the sun and the seasons danced to ancient rhythms, winter melted into spring, spring rolled into summer and autumn would come around again. Every fall, John would insist on staying with his Grandparents for a week, even though they were no longer on the farm. He was happy there, despite the bad memories. They, unlike his parents, loved him without condition. There would come a point, walking by the fields of corn and hay, pumpkins, orange and fat, where the smells and sights of the fading of the year would trigger something in him, deep, scarred, but strangely longing as well. An atavistic tremor would twist through his small frame as he strolled past and he would have nightmares for a few nights running, nightmares of Reubens dragging him into the corn. It wouldn't usually end well. Sometimes, even though he knew the scarecrow saved him, it would be the creature dragging him by the foot through the dirt, and he'd wake up with the sheets tangled around his leg, his voice hoarse from yelling. Then there would come other dreams, especially as he got older. A soft, profound voice would whisper in his ear as the bad dreams came on, calling his name and he would feel a rough hand and long fingers carded his hair. The voice would tell him it was okay; he was there to drive away the horrific images.
Sometimes he'd carry the nightmares back home with him, tucked up against his heart, back to the city, where the sights and smells would usually wash away menacing recollections.
One night, after a week of heavy nightmares and no sleep and a mother who usually ignored John's distress, tired and listless from dealing with John's alcoholic father, he awoke to the feeling of being held throughout the night, wrapped in coarse but comfortable material, the smell of soil and sun and the rustle of crow's wings in his dreams. He stuttered awake, to find in his blankets, a long strand of hay. He felt his heart trip a little in his chest and picked up the piece with equal measures of wonder and trepidation. He dismissed it after a few blurry moments; convincing himself it was from the last walk he'd taken near where his Grandparents now lived, out by the fields, but never in them, never again. This piece must have somehow clung to his clothes. It was more believable and far safer than what he'd first thought, an impossibility that shook him to his core.
It didn't matter that had been three weeks before. The brain, a marvel in complexity and flexibility can convince itself of anything.
As a growing teenager, life continued, the past only ever present in brushes against his subconscious and John was determined to enjoy it. His first serious kiss came and went with Tammy Harding. A little light fumbling with her bra and a serious petting session in her parents' living room left him intrigued and horny for days.
He lost his virginity to Cammie Wilson. It was sweet and awkward, and there was momentary panic when they both thought the condom broke, but all turned out well.
His heart, however, was lost, or maybe misplaced is a better word, to her cousin Brad. Tall, skinny, brunette-gloomy, he had heavy eyes and stormy moods, but John found himself fantasizing about him. Brad took him for a drive one weekend out of the city, two young men on a camping trip and he realized that he could fall far for Brad. They kissed, soft and chaste at first, heat and passion followed in the wake, under the canvas, their sleeping bags zipped together, limbs twisted together. It was different, better, more complex than what he'd had with Cammie.
In the night, Brad got up and went outside to relieve himself. He came back traumatized and scared.
"What's wrong?" John reached out to stroke Brad's cold, clammy bare arm, but Brad thrust himself away violently and looked at him with horror-filled eyes. He wouldn't say, just shook his head back and forth, his mouth working, but nothing emerged from it. He looked down at the ground, tears streamed down his face and refused to speak, desperation rolled off of his trembling body. John tried throughout the rest of the night, but there was nothing he could do to convince Brad to talk. They left early in the morning, dawn climbed over the horizon, a furious red. John was dropped off at his house, and he never saw him again.
That had hurt, with the dull, constant ache of what could have been thrumming in his veins; the confusion of what the hell had happened to Brad, why had he been so fucking scared.
But deep in the shadowy places of his soul, buried under a mantle of normalcy, he knew, and it terrified him. He knew because, after Brad had left the tent, John, in a sleepy post-coital haze, he had heard footsteps, the soft trample like the rush of wind through long, desiccated stalks. He had dismissed it, just as he had dismissed the dreams that followed in the aftermath. Visions of a tempest-tossed field and an angry figure, which stood and watched him, judgement, weighted and measured, limbs crossed, scowl on a burlap face that seemed to have more defined features. They were clearer even though the last he'd seen of the scarecrow face to face had been six years previous and memory should have muddied them.
Another year came and went, another year between now and the incident at the farm. It was winter, Christmas holidays, a scattering of snow on the ground and fairy lights strung up through the city. Dark and brooding thoughts were far from John's mind. He was coming home late one night, enjoying the festive feeling and wondering about the next term at uni, knew he'd be joining the army after, a dream of his since discovering his beloved Grandfather had served in WW II
He crossed the road in a disreputable part of town, coming home from a pub where he'd met up with some old friends from school. He passed a darkened alleyway when two grubby looking toughs hailed him. Younger than John and far more enraged with the world, a reaction displayed in their slouched posture as they held up the wall of the building against which they leaned.
"Give us a fag then, mate," one called out as John strolled past, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched up against the night.
"Sorry. Don't smoke," he called back over his shoulder as he moved away. John knew he should have just ignored them, but the warm, confident glow of alcohol swirled through him, making everything seem relaxed, more serene than it normally would.
He kept walking, only stopped by the hand that reached out and grabbed his shoulder. John shrugged it off automatically.
"Then hand over the money for them?" sneered the taller of the two.
John swore internally. He stood, head tilted to the side, back straight and looked at the two who would surely pound him as soon as he turned his back. He knew he had to end this here and now or they would follow him to a more secluded place and beat the crap out of him.
"No," he said softly, projecting danger. "I don't think so. Go home. Sleep it off."
The first one pulled a knife and waved it under John's nose. "Hand over your wallet and we'll let you go."
John eyed the two. He was tired and slightly drunk with the false confidence of drink and youth on his side. He'd been in a few fights and knew how to hold his own, but he was tired and just wanted to go home. He thought about some of the tricks his uncle had been teaching him, preparing him, he'd said, for when he went into the army.
He grabbed the elbow of the arm with the knife and pinched the nerve there shaking the arm until the other dropped the knife, but he wasn't coordinated enough to prevent the same lad from head butting him, splitting his lip, the warm, salty taste filling his mouth. There was a flash of memory and the sound of crow's wings and derisive laughter, this time the laughter came not from birds but the lad's mate, as he waded into the fray and sucker punched John in the stomach. He doubled over and retched but in a small, aware part of his brain he was pleased to see what came out of his mouth landed on the shoes of the first assailant.
A deadly voice, hard and intimate in his ear, spoke without emotion, cold and deadly, "I'm going to cut your balls off for that," and he grabbed John's crotch. Adrenaline spiked through his system, and the feeling of disconnect grew stronger. The smell of dead leaves rather than the crisp air of winter filled his mind, and he felt the sweep of leaves brush his face. The shadow of a small boy entered into his body, and he whimpered in pain. The shock of the attack left his mind scurrying in an animalistic way. He tried to take a deep breath and centre himself, but the pain in his stomach prevented him. As he stayed crouched over a boot came up and connected to his ribs, and he fell to the ground. He managed to reach out, purely unintentional and totally instinctual and grab the nearest thing to him, which was the leg of the first attacker. It unbalanced the other, and he fell to his knees almost on top of John. In retaliation, a hand grabbed the hair on top of his head and jerked it back.
"Now we kill you, and we'll still have your wallet."
The pain radiating out from various points of his body confused John. He was sure he could hear screams in his head and it wasn't until seconds later, which felt like hours, that he knew they came from the second mugger, not him.
He blinked up, new snow falling from the sky into his eyes. He could make out a familiar shape, arms wrapped around the thug and then the wet celery sound of a neck breaking. The mugger's lifeless body was tossed to the ground.
The first attacker's eyes widened long enough to recognize his death as a deceptively fragile hand reaching out and crushing his throat. John lay there, fear once more pounding through his body.
The scarecrow stood there, head to the side as it stared at John.
John, even in the midst of the haze of pain, now knew for certain that the facial features of the scarecrow were more definite. The suggestion of eyes had been replaced with two startling sky blue, leaf green orbs and the sweep of distinctive eyebrows. The hint of a nose was more pronounced and pale pink full lips looked painted. The creature bent down and gathered John up, setting him on his feet as if he weighed nothing.
John listed a little as he tried to gain his balance the scarecrow wrapped long, strong arms around John's waist and guided him to the kerb. There was the sound of sirens in the distance, no doubt in response to the screams that still echoed on the street.
John shook his head as he glanced at the still forms on the road.
"You can't," he muttered, lip swollen and sore.
The scarecrow shrugged and held out his arms as if asking 'Why not?'
"Because you can't just kill people. You don't have that right."
The creature looked at him did nothing but John got the distinct impression it thought he was stupid.
"You can't just kill people who hurt me. Reubens was one thing. I was a kid, but so were they," he swallowed, sorrow at the waste. Sorrow because he could have been one of them, living on the streets, kicked out of his house, without the love of his Grandparents. He turned to the scarecrow, his eyes filled with remorse. "They deserved to be tried and sentenced, not just tossed aside." John stared at the creature, refusing to break eye contact. Staring down a monster that could easily break him.
The creature shuffled forward and placed a gloved hand on John's chest.
Its mouth parted, dry and dusty, and a parched voice, low and rumbling, like the hollow echo left in the wake of a freight train, shivered through the air. "Mine" the first word John had heard outside of his imagination and fevered dreams. A part of him, stunned by the actions of the scarecrow, agitated by the way it spoke and its declaration, teetered toward hopeless denial at what was happening to him. An overwhelming dread began to seep into his heart, a malevolent black liqueur, preventing his ability to breath properly, even more so than the punch to his gut. Conversely a richer, darker, more intimate part, leaped at the word, cherished and nurtured it, grew it in that same fertile ground. As chilling as it was, it was as if something he had been longing for all of his life landed at his feet, a malignant offspring of the creature. He needed to grab it, hold it tight. He would never be able to describe what he was feeling, and no one would ever understand.
The scarecrow watched his face and seemed to understand because it nodded. It nodded in a very self-satisfied way before it turned and disappeared into the shadows. He could hear the shuffle of its feet, echoed and entwined in his thoughts, long after the police arrived.
It would be ten years before John saw it up close again.
But at night, in his dreams, it was always present, as it hovered, observed, protected. There was an air of expectancy and the sense it was waiting for something, but John didn't know what it was.
