The Last Scarecrow

2 | Number Twelve

Erin rubbed her eyes and cleaned out her ears. For the second time that day she asked herself if she was dreaming.

Voices? On Coldharbour Farm? Impossible, she thought. There's nobody here. Well, nobody alive anyway.

The voice had drifted away, so Erin dropped out of the hayloft and went to investigate.

There was no-one in the barn. No-one in the courtyard, the greenhouse, or the stables. As Erin turned to the farmhouse, she caught sight of something that shocked her to the bone.

No. That's absurd.

After repeatedly blinking and rubbing her eyes, she focused on Number Twelve's cross. Her eyes hadn't deceived her- the cross was empty!

Erin pounded down cobbles. She circled the cross several times, staring up and down the shore, scanning the water for the missing scarecrow, but there was no sign of her. It was then that she noticed a trail a muddy bootprints leading back towards the farmhouse.

Her fingers gently rubbed her temples as the most impossible idea began to form. Her mind raced through the Book of Scarecrows, to the creatures that she had designed and built and positioned on the rolling hills of Coldharbour Farm.

No, she thought again, her brain fighting the idea. That's insane.

Creeping back up the hill, Erin checked the barn and stables and greenhouse once more for good measure, then followed the footprints into the farmhouse kitchen. Here, the voice returned.

And then another!

Two voices? What in the heavens is going on?

The conversation was coming from the lounge, so Erin shuffled along the hallway, crouched outside the door, and took a peek inside.

She swallowed a gasp, pulling away from the sight that filled her vision.

No. No. No. NO. NO. NOOOO!

Erin scampered back down the hallway, silently circling the kitchen table, her hands gripping her dungaree straps. She picked up an empty baked bean can and inspected the expiry on the bottom. She frowned, wondering if the date had passed or not.

Was she seeing things?

Was she delirious with hunger and loneliness?

Did she have some sort of food poisoning that was causing hallucinations?

Was she simply imagining all of this or was it- real?

Steadied against the kitchen sink, Erin took two long breaths and returned to her concealed positioned by the lounge door. She summoned all her courage and took a second look.

Sat in Pa's favourite armchair was Number Twelve.

The scarecrow barely fit. Her enormous frame spilled over the sides, her rubber-gloved hands dragged on the floor, her knees- which, like all her joints, were fashioned from old tractor parts- were bent up to meet her bony chin.

"So," Number Twelve was saying, "All the humans are dead?"

"Yep, dead as dead can be," replied the other voice. "Dead as doornails, as dodos, as yesterday. Drowned, most probably. If the hail didn't bash their brains in first."

"How?" Twelve asked.

"The Many Years Storm."

Who was the scarecrow talking to? Erin couldn't see anyone.

She curled her fingers around the doorframe and there, perched on Number Twelve's broad shoulder was a little blackbird.

"You don't know much, do you?" the blackbird sighed.