The Last Scarecrow

39 | The Last Scarecrow

Two weeks passed.

Erin and Marshall spent their days rebuilding the barn, bricking up the back of the stables, fixing the greenhouse, relaying the flagstone and cobbles, and tidying the farmhouse.

They organised all the weapons and piles of broken body parts into Erin's scarecrow creation-station. By the time they'd finished she had enough to create fifty new scarecrows. Perhaps more.

But she didn't have the energy for it.

Or the heart.

Well, almost.

In the evenings they sat with Twelve by the shore and watched the sun set.

Every day the colours on the horizon were more amazing than the last. Raspberry and lemon were joined by jade and crimson and tangerine and gold, fissures of colour sprayed on the inky blue backdrop, like splatters of paint.

Slowly, the water began to recede.

Clouds filled the sky.

The cobbled path, that had once disappeared into the Endless Blue, was reclaimed.

Marshall wheeled Twelve down to the retreating shore. It was now twice the distance from the farmhouse. Where sunflowers and corn had once swayed gently in the cool summer breeze, there was sodden, ruined earth.

The cobbled path met the water at an intersection, a path ran towards Eight's distant crop of land.

Erin followed, looking at the waterlogged earth, wondering how long it would take to recover. Twelve sat slumped to one side in the wheelchair, her head bobbing gently.

Would Twelve recover too? Or was she like the farmland— spoilt, broken, and dying?

They took the scarecrow down the path every day until the water levels dropped low enough to make it all the way to Eight's island.

The sun was getting hotter every day.

Erin and Marshall wore shorts and t-shirts and sat on a chequered blanket, their backs to Eight's cross. Before them was a small picnic consisting of tomatoes, cucumber and peppers that Erin had salvaged from the greenhouse. Out-of-date crisps and salted peanuts, that the birds had scavenged in the depths of HMS Fortitude, where poured into bowls next to a half-full, utterly flat bottle of traditional lemonade.

Erin and Marshall ate and chatted and made plans for the coming days and weeks.

When they were done, they took Twelve back to the farmhouse and settled her in the living room opposite the painting of The Haughty Jinx and a pile of National Geographic's that Erin had discovered under Clyde's bed.

With the scarecrow distracted, they returned to Eight's cross and removed it from the ground. They carried the awkward lump back to the courtyard and erected it next to Twelve's, facing the Endless Blue.

Night slipped across the horizon.

Marshall sat with Twelve in the living room. In the barn Erin put the final touches to a surprise she'd been working on. A surprise that she hoped would help Twelve turn the corner and rediscover her strength.

That night, Erin barely slept. Equal measures excitement and worry kept her dreams at bay.

In the morning, bleary-eyed and aching, she hobbled down the stairs. Marshall was asleep on the sofa in the living room with Socks on his lap.

But Twelve was gone.

She bolted through the kitchen and out into the courtyard. Scanning the area, Erin searched the stables and the barn, eventually finding Twelve down the hill staring up at two crosses.

Erin half-walked, half-skipped to join the scarecrow. She circled Twelve and stood, with her back to the water, looking up at a brand-new scarecrow that now hung on Eight's cross.

It wore one of her brother's Dungeon's & Dragon's t-shirts, baggy blue jeans, a high-visibility life-preserver, and a Coldharbour High School Redkites Cap. It was mostly constructed from mannequin parts, it's head the smiling medicine ball that Erin had once tried to attach to Twelve's body.

"I'm calling him Thirteen," Erin said. "What do you think?"

"Him?" Twelve said.

"I suppose. I hadn't—"

"It's Clyde," Twelve said softly.

Erin voice caught in her throat.

"No, it isn't. He's called Thirteen," she said hurriedly. "I made him for you."

"No," Twelve said, smiling up at the new scarecrow. "You made him for us."

Erin hadn't considered that at all. Perhaps, somewhere deep inside, she'd made a scarecrow that resembled Clyde. Perhaps she needed a brother just as much as Twelve needed a scarecrow.

Swallowing her emotions, Erin said, "You're not the last scarecrow anymore. Thirteen is, or can be for now, until we go and find the others—"

Tears were forming in Erin's eyes. A deep yearning pulled at her heart.

Twelve held out a hand and took Erin's. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too, Twelve. You're amazing."

"You created me. You made me what I am."

"Ma always told me that our actions make us who we are."

They stood for what seemed like an age, staring at the last scarecrow.

Thirteen.

Clyde.

"Is he going to wake up?" Twelve asked.

A tear ran down Erin's face.

"No," she said. "I don't believe so."

Twelve sighed. "I'm tired, Erin. So tired." Her voice was slow, drawn. Despite the faint whisper of her words and her sluggish movements, the scarecrow appeared to be smiling. "Is this what it feels like just before you fall asleep?"

Erin looked down at the exhausted scarecrow, tears filling her eyes. "Yes. I believe it is."

"Good," Twelve replied, turning hers to the sky.

The faintest glimmer of starlight could be seen against the radiant blue.

"Finally," she said. "I get to find out what sleep is like. I don't have to imagine anymore."

"That's right, Twelve," Erin replied, her voice shaking, her vision blurred with tears.

She felt hollowed out then, empty.

"You can sleep now, Twelve. A good long sleep. You deserve it. And you can dream. Dream as big, and as wild, and as carefree as you dare. Dream yourself to the stars and back."

Slowly, the scarecrow's chin dropped to her chest.

Her shoulders tipped.

A worm fell from her eye socket.

Skeins of crystal white vapour rose from the scarecrow's body, twisting and spiralling in the cool, morning air.

A sickly shiver crept over Erin's skin.

Twelve was gone.