The Last Scarecrow

18 | The Scrapers

Under Cairo's direction, Lazarus headed south, keeping Twelve's latest estimation of the North Star at her back.

Erin glanced at the empty metal bucket that Jack had returned to the top of the mast and wondered where Raven was.

The sun and moon passed one another. Low on the horizon. Blending until it was hard to tell them apart.

Jack took the pink belt off and returned the blanket, fidgeting with his damaged shoulder. The vultures had ripped through the bindings and loosened his stuffing. He scanned the sky, presumably wondering, as Erin did, where the blackbird had gone and whether they were going in the right direction.

Night bled across the sky, thin and grey.

Stars became more focused.

Socks sat calmly beside Erin, his head on her lap, his tail swaying happily from side to side. She fussed his head and smoothed his ears, the lurcher making happy whimpering sounds, his legs kicking in tiny circles. Erin watched the dog drift into long, sumptuous dreams as Twelve pulled evenly on the oars. The rhythm, a reassuring sound. But, despite her exhaustion, Erin couldn't drift off.

Even Jack was asleep.

Erin wondered what wickermen dreamt of.

Tomas' idea of wickermen being powered by human spirits returned to her. Was there even the slightest truth in that? Looking at Twelve, she had to concede that his theory was at least possible, if not completely plausible.

The scarecrow let the boat drift across the water, pulling the oars inside the boat. "Aren't you tired?" she said.

"Nah," Erin replied. "Too much excitement."

Twelve nodded.

"That's what Ma used to say when we couldn't sleep. Normally the night before my birthday, or a big holiday, or Christmas."

She looked at the huge scarecrow.

"Now, I don't know...perhaps excitement is the wrong word."

"Anticipation?" Twelve suggested.

"Worry," Erin told her.

They sat together, silently scanning the skies for whatever truths dwelled in the stars.

Erin smiled and felt happy.

Just for a moment.

With everything that was happening, she felt guilty for taking that moment and feeling something other than horror and fear and worry. But she continued to smile, falling in love with the notion—no matter how impossible—of still being alive and the infinite magnificence of the universe.

The sky had become beautiful, clear and crisp, a flood of pale ink. The heavens were on heightened display, intense and mesmerising. Erin could make out faint blossoms of colour—blue, purple, green—swarming between the pinholes of light and the promise of dark.

Morning arrived, bland and cold.

Erin snorted as she woke from what could only have been an hour of sleep.

The moon had shuffled below the horizon, but the stars endured, however dimmed.

Twelve had been rowing all night, her current choice of North Star at six o'clock.

And then, to their surprise and relief, a collection of dark rectangular shapes bled into existence at the edge of the world.

The Scrapers.

Somehow Twelve had found them.

As they drifted closer, Raven's cries of distress echoed through Erin's head. But they pressed on, Lazarus speeding towards their destination.