The Silent Scream of the Straw Man

by Corinne F. Gerwe

  “I was surprised to learn how many festivals take place annually. For example, there’s the Urchfont Scarecrow Festival in the UK, and among others, the largest gathering of scarecrows in one location was achieved in Staffordshire. There are several held in Scotland, the most well-known in West Kilbride. There’s the Scarecrow Festival in St. Charles, Illinois, and one in the valley region of Nova Scotia, Canada, where the ‘pumpkin people’ gather in the fall months to celebrate. In the Philippines, the Province of Isabela has recently started a scarecrow festival named after the local language, and a Japanese village on the island of Shikoku in the Tokushima Prefecture, has thirty-five residents but more than three hundred and fifty scarecrows. It seems the scarecrow has meaning to a great many people.”

  Steve interjected, “In recent times, cartoonists have caricaturized politicians as scarecrows. I read that a British wheat farmer, hoping to scare off pigeons ravaging his crop, built a scarecrow of Lady Gaga as she appeared on the 2010 Brit Awards. But seriously, I do know that American folk art historians put scarecrows in a class known as ephemerals in that they don’t last long. Snowmen are also counted among the ranks of ephemerals. Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote a story about a scarecrow brought to life in seventeenth century Salem, Massachusetts, by a witch in league with the devil, and Russell Thorndike wrote a novel, The Scarecrow, in which the scarecrow becomes the alter ego of the smuggler hero, Dr. Syn.”

  Kate added, “The ancient Greeks made wooden figures of Priapus, their god of fertility, horticulture, and viticulture. These figures were placed among their crops as guards. Images of the Norse god Odin and his ravens, Huginn and Muninn, were also made into scarecrow figures. It seems that whatever the cultural origin, scarecrows worldwide were conceived to perform one specific task; to frighten. Around the turn of the twentieth century, psychologist Carl Jung saw the scarecrow as a spiritual symbol. The scarecrow became a dimension of the Jungian archetype known as “the shadow” because it represents monstrous emotions and thoughts, which often provoke feelings of fear and dread.”

  Farley spoke up, “Most people around here put up scarecrows for the simple reason of scaring crows, doves, red wing blackbirds, grackles, sparrows, turkeys and quail that crave not only fresh seed but the sugar from young corn. In this area, where small farms and garden patches are prevalent, the farmers and gardeners tend the land the old-fashioned way, by putting up scarecrows like their folks did before them. In lots of other places, where there are bigger farms, scarecrows have been replaced by chemicals and high-tech mechanisms. They’ve even invented a digital scarecrow that emits ultrasonic waves. I guess we are behind the times here, but that’s because folks in these parts hold on to the old ways, and thinking about what you all are saying, I know they hold on to their superstitions, too. I have to admit, you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  Dev added, “Well think about this, Jeff. While it’s true that the hay-man has been cast aside where large scale agriculture is common, it can be seen nearly everywhere as a decoration during Halloween, which is a very superstitious time of year. It may even have found new meaning in today’s culture. We could be dealing with a new meaning instead of an ancient one.”

  Steve said, “That’s a good point, Dev. The hay man has sure found new meaning in the film business. And I’m not talking about the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. There is this scarecrow designer known simply as PumkinRot. He designed a scarecrow by the same name made with roots and petrified branches. It looks like a corpse with an oversized pumpkin head. His designs are a departure from scarecrows we typically see. He got this idea about placing them in fields near secluded roadsides and then watching the reactions of people who came upon them, creating a legend of sorts. He’s got a website followed by scarecrow enthusiasts all over the world.”

  “I didn’t even know there were scarecrow enthusiasts,” Kate said.

  Steve continued, “I’ve pulled up his website here on my phone. I’ll read some excerpts if you’d like.”

  All were in agreement to hear more.

  “It reads that two years ago the Stan Winston School, known for producing some of Hollywood’s best prop designers, brought his scarecrows to Hollywood. The director of a horror flick sought a scarecrow artist to make twelve for his film. The school had been following PumpkinRot’s work and realized they had found the perfect project for him. He writes, ‘I’ve worshipped that prop shop since I was a kid. So to think that they knew of my work . . . what a crazy ride.’

  “Although he doesn’t typically sell his scarecrows, he says he would if a farmer decided to return one to the fields for use. He writes, ‘The idea of putting one to work is bittersweet. It’s a lonesome post, standing in the fields for days and months as weather and the elements slowly turn the scarecrow to rotting, disintegrating tatters.’ Apparently years of making them gave him plenty of time to think about the role of a scarecrow, even as they have disappeared from the fields. He writes, ‘There was an isolation and loneliness to the scarecrows. You never see two together. They’re always alone, doing some important, solitary job for the person who made them.’”

  Farley commented, “He sounds like Jacob, our medical examiner, talking about them like they’re real.”

  Kate added, “I’m beginning to think they can become real, depending on how they are needed and by whom.”

  Dev said, “That’s the question, Kate. How was our scarecrow needed? What purpose did he serve? What meaning did he have to the murderer?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  these days scarecrows

  are the gatekeepers

  –Issa

  STEVE FELT EXHILARATED WHEN HE returned to the guest room that night. He’d actively participated in something that tapped into his literary knowledge and found that his memory was functioning better than it had in years. He hoped they hadn’t sensed his initial anxiety, which had dissipated as the evening wore on. He’d been taken into the fold, accepted, and could hardly believe the trust they had placed in him. He’d let the humor slide and forgot to project an ease of manner that was only a pretense. He’d just been himself, without the mask.

  Incredibly, he’d been able to think and communicate without drinking, without self-medicating. Since leaving treatment, he’d been afraid of social interactions outside of work, particularly with so much at stake. He’d already had one emotional setback and couldn’t afford another. Talking about the scarecrow had helped, being on the inside, seeing it from different points of view. He started feeling drowsy and wondered if he would dream about the scarecrow.

  Across the ridge to the southeast, the wind swept through the hollows, creating an eerie howling sound. Weakened branches fell crashing to the ground, the lighter ones flying through the air until hitting an obstruction or landing. Several crash-landed on the rooftop of the Winnebago, adding fear to the restless anticipation Megan felt as she waited. She wondered if the wind had awakened other occupants, the few who had remained in the encampment. It had been a long day and most of the cast and crew had gone back to the lodge. They were probably in the tavern celebrating the end of a grueling week. She had begged off due to exhaustion from the twelve-hour workday schedule. Sherwood had been driving everyone relentlessly, but that was his style.

  Another branch hit the roof with a thud. Megan went to a small window by the door of the trailer and swept the closed curtain aside. Her eyes met a pitch black wall. She’d never seen a night so dark and wondered if it was true about more danger being afoot on a moonless night than a night of the full moon. Where had she read that? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t care. The cloak of darkness would protect her, and him. But if he didn’t get there soon, she’d be the one to fear, not the dark.

  She heard the tap on the door. Her heart pounded as she undid the latch. The candles she had lit to set the mood were almost put out by the gust of wind that blew in. He closed the door and pulled her into his arms, the piney outdoor scent of him thrilling her senses. She pushed him away and
stood before him, letting her sheer robe fall open to display her beauty to him as a gift. He reached for her again, but this time with brute force, rougher than she’d ever experienced. She responded by yielding rather than protesting. This was not what she had intended. The power she had mistakenly thought she had by initiating the rendezvous was lost to his control. There was an absence of tenderness in his touch, a presence of malice in his expression. She felt trapped, caught in a web of confusion, powerlessness, and need.

  Across the mountain range to the southern peak, the Serena Lodge sat high on the ridge. A billboard posted along the interstate advertised it as the last resting stop before the descent to the foothills of South Carolina. A shifting gust of wind crossed this mountaintop with a powerful surge in the hours after midnight. The lodge dwellings in its path gave sway while holding firm to their foundations, creating a sensation of movement within. Joyce awoke from sleep with alarm.

  She felt alone and unsettled, but had no one to call. Her work was her life and had been for as long as she could remember. There were others like her in the business, puppet masters of people’s careers, no life of their own. It was easier than being hurt, being rejected, not being one of the beautiful people. But she could have power over them, give them a break or deny it, give them a chance to fail or succeed. It was a cutthroat business. There were no guarantees, regardless of talent, looks, connections, if luck was not on their side. Sometimes she felt like she was throwing new hopefuls to the wolves. But this time, she wondered if she hadn’t chosen one.

  She’d been keeping an eye on Zack, although he was oblivious. He was blind to a woman like her, matronly, big-boned, and plain. Yes, he had turned on the charm when she’d introduced herself. He’d even expressed gratitude to her for choosing him. It had been a brief exchange, but one she could not get out of her mind. She’d felt an attraction, powerful and disturbing, causing her to inform him of her influence with Sherwood and her interest in his progress. He’d been duly impressed. She’d arranged for him to help on the set and with the stunt crew as a non-union aid, when not in his role as extra. He’d thanked her profusely. He’d been attentive, asking her advice, listening to her opinions, but recently something had changed.

  He was currently enacting his miniscule role as one of the bootleggers involved in a moonshine pick-up followed by a high-speed chase scene. Purvis McCabe had run his illegal moonshine business with a network of trusted runners who placed liquor in various secret forest locations for pick-up and delivery by bootleggers. The bootleggers drove their souped-up vehicles hard and fast over the mountain back roads, sometimes being chased by the law. Zack looked so realistic in the background, Sherwood put him in more action scenes. When not being filmed, he was either helping at the compound or with the stunt crew on the back road lot location.

  Joyce began to feel his indifference and total lack of deference at the same time she noticed a change in his manner. He was getting increasingly bold, intrusive, acting like a member of the crew instead of a subservient aid. At times he appeared furtive, sneaky, like an animal on the prowl. He’d stop to watch scenes being shot when he should have been working, particularly when Megan was in them. One day she observed him watching Megan act out a scene with Buddy. The sly feral look on his face made her shudder.

  She thought about having him fired, but worried it would reflect badly on her reputation. She thought about confronting him, but with what, a look? There was no indication he had ever spoken to Megan or approached her in any way. She tried to convince herself there was nothing to worry about, that any man would stare at Megan with admiration; she was young, beautiful, and desirable. But her memory protested; the expression on his face had exuded predatory confidence, not admiration.

  The only thing she could do was to remain vigilant, and then act accordingly as the situation required. Zach had underestimated her if he thought he could play up to her, and then move on as if she had no importance. She knew how to handle men like him, and would not hesitate to enforce her own method of problem-solving. Thoughts of it began to alleviate her agitation; tomorrow was another day, and he was just another unsuspecting fool.

  Nestled deep in the forest well of the Green River Gorge, the woman Zack Tanner lived with waited in her campsite home by the river. Although many thought so, she did not consider herself a fool. She had come to accept that he spent her money, ran around with younger women, was sometimes mean to her, and couldn’t be trusted. It hurt a lot, but not as bad as the thought of losing him. She’d known from the beginning he had to be bought, spoiled, and given a certain amount of freedom. She was older, smarter, and understood his needs. He counted on her to protect him at all cost and never call the police, unlike some before her. None of them had lasted. They couldn’t take it. But she could. She could take anything, except being alone. The mere thought of it sent her into a panic.

  She hadn’t been worried about it until the movie audition, which he hadn’t told her about. As always with Zack, she’d found out after the fact. He’d shrugged it off and said she should be happy he had a day job. Hadn’t she been after him to get one? As usual, he’d turned the tables on her, making it seem her idea. So how could she object? But she had objected, without saying a word. Instead, she’d braced herself for another meltdown when he started taking twice as long to get ready in the morning, leaving early each day, coming home late each night.

  There had been times in the past when he hadn’t come home for days on end, but this was different, his habits more regular. He came home to sleep, as if needing beauty rest. His previous jobs hadn’t lasted long because he’d been unreliable, chronically tardy, and often absent. He hadn’t missed a day on the film set. Worst of all, they hadn’t been intimate in weeks. She thought about checking up on him but knew if he found out there’d be a hefty price to pay. The last time he caught her spying on him, he’d almost killed her.

  The road at the base of the gorge where she lived ran parallel with the Green River and wound like a corkscrew to the top of the mountain where it dead-ended into Green River Gap Road, which led to the main street of Serena. Along this road, parked under the interstate overpass, Deputy Purdy sat in his cruiser waiting for a certain vehicle to pass by. There had been a significant change in his routine that evening and he was determined to stay put until morning if necessary.

  Recently, Chief Farley had ordered him to adjust his second shift rounds to include a check on the habits of Zack Tanner. Purdy had been monitoring Tanner’s work schedule from a hidden off-road lookout position near the only entry/exit access road to the McCabe compound. Initially, his watch hadn’t taken long because Tanner had been exiting each evening at approximately the same time, heading for home. For the past two weeks, however, he’d been staying behind after most of the cast and crew left for the day. Purdy had been tempted to drive back to the compound to investigate but resisted. He’d suspected Tanner was up to something but thought it best to strictly adhere to Chief Farley’s orders. But that night, Tanner had not left the compound at all and Purdy decided to find out why.

  Impulsively, with curiosity and investigative spirit overriding caution, he turned onto the narrow newly-paved road that eventually led to a fork in the road where he turned left toward the compound. He drove slowly for some distance until coming to a parking area off to the left that was almost empty except for a few vehicles. A closed padlocked gate blocked the drive up the rise to the compound, which was engulfed in darkness. After turning off his headlights, it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust, so he took out his flashlight and got out of the cruiser. A spotlight lit the area beyond the outlines of two equipment vans at the entrance to a forest clearing, so he headed in that direction.

  When he came to the clearing where the Winnebagos were parked, he stopped to take in the scene. Two of the trailers had outside lights burning, but were dark inside and one was dimly lit from inside. The only sound he could hear was the wind blowing leaves and branches in every direction. He though
t better of knocking on the trailer doors and disturbing inhabitants. Chief Farley would not want members of the film company alerted to a problem that might not exist.

  His primary objective was to locate the white Ford Ranger registered to Margaret Bowling that Tanner drove back and forth to the set. It was not in the parking lot among the two vans, a pick-up truck, and what appeared to be a stunt vehicle. He went back to the cruiser, drove back out, looking in every direction for the Ranger. There were fields of tall grass on either side of the road until coming to the fork where the forest bordered the road leading to the highway. He thought about turning around and heading back to the fork where turning right led to the new road to the winery, but it also led straight to Mamma Phoebe’s cabin. No one in their right mind would venture onto her property and try to hide a vehicle in the dead of night.

  Not willing to give up, Purdy headed back to town and drove out beyond the interstate overpass to the road circling down to the Green River Gorge, following his GPS to the address listed for Margaret Bowling. He slowed the cruiser as he passed her riverside dwelling while checking out the empty carport. Turning back and passing again, he noticed light inside a window at the rear of the residence, probably a bedroom. He wondered if she was awake and waiting for Tanner. Returning up the mountainside and onto Green River Gap Road, he pulled off under the overpass where he, too, waited until almost dawn. Just before sunrise, after nodding off several times, Purdy was rewarded for his efforts when the white Ford Ranger sped hurriedly by.