The Last Scarecrow

28 | Skin

The Patchwork Woman stood naked in the firelight. Erin trembled as she took in the full terror of her distorted form. From her fingers, all the way up her arms, across her chest and down to her feet, the woman was an embroidered catastrophe of mottled, hairless flesh.

Each segment— some large, some small, pale, dark, grey, tattooed, infected— was tied to the next with course, black stitching. The flesh was frayed in places, the stitches pulling apart where the skin was broken, inflamed, raw and crumbling.

But most horrifying of all was The Patchwork Woman's head.

It was made of nine or ten pieces, held together with the same ghastly stitching.

There was no mouth in a traditional sense, just long black stitches that ran horizontally over a pair of miss-matched, bloated, purple lips.

Her eyes sockets were torn, ruined holes. They looked as though someone had taken a sharp fingernail and gouged them out in a desperate hurry. Behind them was nothing but shadows.

Erin turned away, disgusted. She closed her eyes and saw the body of the farmhand Loren, the young woman on the small island near Coldharbour Farm, the skin on her head and hands removed.

Bile rose in her throat. Her head spun.

"Am I not beautiful?" The Patchwork Woman roared. "Am I not everything you imagined I would be?"

"What are you?" Twelve said.

The Patchwork Woman straightened, her ruined arms spread wide.

"I am the last human woman!"

Twelve rose to her knees.

"I see derision in your eyes," The Patchwork Woman said. "I see fear, and confusion, and repulsion. I know, my skin is worn, damaged, and riddled with corruption. It's cold and fragile. It splits. The stitches break and itch and burn. But no longer. Soon, I will have a complete skin— smooth, young, and supple— not cobbled together from a hundred others. One that will not break. One that will last me forever!"

Twelve thrust a cement-filled boot into the ground and launched herself up to full height. With The Patchwork Woman standing on the tree trunks, she and Twelve were the same height.

They locked eyes.

"What are you?" Twelve said again, reaching forward.

"Twelve," Jack warned, raising a hunters axe. "Leave her. You have no idea what she can do."

Ignoring the wickerman's warning, she shifted forward.

Twelve didn't see the blow coming.

One second she was standing, staring at The Patchwork Woman. The next, she was sprawled out on the ground again. Wickermen were upon her, tying her limp arms behind her back. They fastened her feet too, hog-tying them to her wrists.

The Patchwork Woman brushed passed, sweeping the long black cloak back over her shoulders, hiding her abhorrent skin. She said nothing, merely glared down at Twelve, then turned towards Erin.

A strong hand clasped the back of Erin's poncho and dragged her to her feet. A fresh wave of pain flooded her frail body. Pinned to the column, two hands held her in place as her knees trembled and promised to fail.

"Take it off," The Patchwork Woman said, her voice a venomous whisper.

A dim glow filled Erin's vision as the sackcloth was removed. Swallowing hard, she sucked down a lungful of air and steadied her shoulders.

Jack and Tomas and a handful of wickermen were grouped in the doorway, the others surrounded Twelve's hog-tied body. Loren stood a little closer, her thumbs tucked underneath the top of her belt. She seemed to be chewing on something, her hat titled back. Jutting from her belt was Erin's pistol, her strange green fingers caressing the cold steel. To her left, Marshall was knelt beside another column, his hands bound, his head covered in the same itchy sackcloth.