The Last Scarecrow

25 | Journey Home

As the last of Harunara's mannequins were slung from The Scrapers, Twelve launched herself onto The Crystal Tower.

Tossing The Golden Queen's head to the ground, she rolled back and forth until the flames died and the smoke began to clear. Coming to a stop on her back, the scarecrow took a deep breath, relaxing every joint and tractor part and mechanical device in her body.

Erin dragged herself over and placed her head on the scarecrow's smouldering chest.

The pirate jacket was scorched with patches of charcoal and soot, the stitching frayed and torn, buttons loose or missing.

"I thought you were dead," Erin said. "I thought I'd lost you."

Twelve reached down and stroked Erin's ragged hair.

"No such luck," she joked. Then, more earnestly, "For a time I thought I was done for. The water made things ten times harder than I ever imagined. Perhaps a hundred times."

Her massive head fell against the ground. "I feel— tired."

Erin sat up, her eyes staring into Twelve's wriggling hollows. A starfish had attached itself to the side of the scarecrow's head.

"But—" she began. "You never get tired. You never sleep. You don't need to eat or breathe or— anything. How can you—?"

"I don't know," Twelve began. "I'm just exhausted. Everything hurts."

Erin nodded.

The battle must have really taken it out of her. She wondered if Twelve would get better. If she would finally find sleep, perhaps dream, and restore all the energy she had lost rescuing the Non-Believers and battling Harunara at the bottom of the ocean and atop The Crystal Tower.

Time was the only true healer.

That, and a reconditioning, overhaul in Erin's Scarecrow Workshop back on Coldharbour Farm.

Erin felt a sudden pang of homesickness. It was strange and surprising. She'd spent her entire life there, been trapped during The Many Years Storm, buried her parents there, and prayed for escape. But now, having been away for some time, she pined for her barn, her bedroom, her toys, and her scarecrow spare-parts repository.

"I want to go home," she told Twelve.

"What about your brother? What about Clyde?"

Erin bit her lip. "I'm not giving up on him. I'd never do that."

"But, why—"

"Look at us," Erin said. "We're beaten and battered. We're barely alive." She turned to Marshall and Jack and Socks. "Do you want to come and live with me?"

Marshall nodded.

Socks yipped.

"Sure. Where?"

"My childhood home. Coldharbour Farm. There's plenty of room for all of us. Twelve can have my parents room, you can take my brothers for now, and Jack can live in the hayloft. It's dead comfy and snug."

The wickerman smiled. "Sounds wonderful. A real home."

He looked as though he had been pulled through a bush backwards. Arrows protruded from every square inch of his body. The metal armour was split and battered. His feathered cape torn beyond belief.

"I'll put you back together the moment we get there," Erin promised him. "I'll make you as good as new."

She turned her attention back to the scarecrow. "And once we're all good as new we'll find my brother and every last one of your sisters."