The Last Scarecrow

1 | After The Storm

Erin woke up to an unusual sound— silence.

Spying the huge double doors to the barn, she swung her legs out of the hayloft and dropped to the flagstones. She crept over to the doors and stared out at the world beyond.

Erin could scarcely believe it.

The rain had stopped.

Part of her jumped for joy. The rest of her wondered if she was still dreaming.

Crouching, she ran her hands over the uneven stones that paved the courtyard, linking the barn to the farmhouse to the stables and the greenhouse.

The stones were beginning to dry and turn pale.

Is this real? Is this really happening?

Erin sat cross-legged, her back to the damp wood barn. Above her was a brand new sky, one she hadn't seen before— grey, blank, cloudless. It had rained for what seemed like years. To be honest, Erin had no idea how long it had gone on, and she certainly hadn't bothered to count the days. There were too many other things to worry about.

"Why?" she said to the world. "Why now?"

The grey, cloudless skies stared back, silent and still.

"Perhaps Number Twelve knows," she decided, pushing off the floor and heading toward the cobbled path that led to the shore.

Positioned just metres from the grey water that surrounded Erin's little island stood a wooden cross, weathered and worn by the savagery of the storm.

Hanging loosely by its bindings was a scarecrow.

Number Twelve.

The scarecrow wore a long, elegant dress made of the deepest, emptiest, blackest velvet that you can imagine. Over the dress was a red pirate jacket. It had wide lapels studded with metal buttons and double-folded cuffs inlaid with gold thread and silk. Most of the coat was splatted with mud and dirt, and worn at the shoulders where the scarecrows angular struts rubbed against the fabric.

"Hello, Twelve," said Erin conversationally. "I bet you're happy the storm is over. There's no shelter for you out here."

Erin circled the cross, checking what condition the scarecrow was in. She was surprised to find Number Twelve in good working order. Her cement-filled boots and rubber-gloved hands still attached correctly and, despite the dirt on her clothes, there was no visible damage.

"I don't suppose you have any idea why the rain stopped?" she asked.

Number Twelve just hung there.

"Didn't think so."

Erin leant back, inspecting the huge bison skull that served as the scarecrow's head. One of the horns was cracked and a host of bugs and maggots and worms had taken up residence in the eye sockets.

"Scarier than ever," Erin shuddered, turning to the sea.

The grey, faceless water stretched to the horizon in every direction, flat and calm.

"It's weird," she told the scarecrow. "For so long the sky has been black and angry and filled with clouds. The sea was like some endless monster churning and smashing and destroying everything. But now—"

Erin spun in a full circle, her arms outspread, her face angled to the heavens.

"Nothing. A silent, grey nothing. Where are all the blues and golds and pinks and greens?"

Two pale orbs blinked into existence, hanging low in the sky. Erin wondered which was the sun and which was the moon. They look identical, twins perhaps.