“No, I've got no appetite, Jack. I'm wasting away with love.”
“If you're sure, then,” said Jack, finishing off the stew.
“I know!” said the Scarecrow, sitting up suddenly and opening his umbrella with excitement. “I could serenade her!”
“Well …,” said Jack, but the Scarecrow was too excited to listen.
“Yes! That's it! Here's the plan. Wait till dark, and then pick her up and pretend to sweep the floor. And sweep her outside, and then sort of casually lean her against the wall, and then I'll sing to her.”
“Well—” Jack began again.
“Oh yes. When she hears me sing, her heart will be mine!”
“You better not sing too loud. I don't think the farmer'd like it. I'm sure his old lady wouldn't.”
“Oh, I shall be very discreet,” said the Scarecrow. “Tender, but ardent, is the note to strike.”
“That sounds about right,” said Jack.
“Start sweeping as soon as the moon shines into the farmyard. I think moonlight would show me to advantage, don't you?”
“Maybe you better let me tidy you up,” said Jack, and he dusted the Scarecrow's shoulders and put some fresh straw in his chest and washed his turnip. “There—you look a treat. Remember, not too loud now.”
The Scarecrow sat down outside the barn, and Jack went inside to lie down. Before he did, though, he found the broom and put her beside the door, so that he'd be able to find her in the dark.
“Excuse me,” he found himself saying, “but I hope you don't mind if I put you over here. You'll find out why when the moon comes up.”
She didn't reply, but she leaned against the wall very gracefully. Jack thought she must be shy, until he caught himself and shook his head.
He's got me believing she's alive, he thought. I better be careful, in case I go as mad as he is.
He lay down on the straw and closed his eyes. The old donkey and the cow were asleep on their feet, just breathing quietly and chewing a bit from time to time, and it was all very quiet and peaceful.
Jack woke up when the moonlight touched his eyes. He yawned and stretched and sat up.
Well, he said to himself, time to start brushing the floor. This is a daft idea. Still, he's a marvel, the master, no doubt about it.
He took the broom and swept the floor, brushing all the straw and dust casually toward the door where the moonlight was shining through. Once he was outside, he leaned the broom against the wall and yawned again before going back to lie down.
And almost at once he went back to sleep. He must have started dreaming straightaway, because it seemed as if he were watching the Scarecrow sweeping the ground outside, singing to the broom as he did so:
“Your handle so slender,
Your bristles so tender,
I have to surrende
My heart to your charms;
Retreating, advancing,
And secretly glancing,
Oh, never stop dancing
All night in my arms!”
Jack blinked and rubbed his eyes, but it made no difference. The Scarecrow and the broom were waltzing around the barnyard like the most graceful dancers at a ball.
“Your gentle demeanor
Sweeps everything cleaner!
I never have seen a
More elegant Miss;
So gracious, so charming,
Completely disarming,
Oh where is the harm in
A maidenly kiss?”
Jack dreamed, He's going to marry her, and then he won't want a servant anymore. Mind you, he does look happy. But I don't know if I'll ever find a master I'd rather serve….
And while he was lying there puzzled by all those thoughts, he was woken up all of a sudden by a horrible raucous yell.
“Hee-haw! Hee-haw!”
He sat up and realized, first, that it had been a dream; and second, that the old donkey in the barn was braying and stamping and creating no end of a fuss; and third, that outside in the barnyard the Scarecrow was roaring and howling and bellowing with anger, or distress, or misery.
Jack scrambled to the door of the barn to see the farmer's wife, in a long nightdress, running out of the kitchen door with a frying pan held high above her head. Behind her the farmer, in a long nightshirt, was fumbling with a blunderbuss. The Scarecrow was clutching the broom to his heart, and real tears were streaming down his turnip.
“No, missus! No! Don't!” Jack shouted, and ran out to try and head off the farmer's wife, who was about to wallop the Scarecrow with the frying pan. There was no danger from the farmer; as soon as he tried to aim the blunderbuss, all the lead shot fell out of the end of the barrel and bounced on the flag-stones like hail.
Jack reached the Scarecrow just as the farmer's
wife did, and stood between them with his arms held wide.
“No, missus! Stop! Let me explain!” he said.
“I'll brain him!” she cried. “I'll teach him to go caterwauling in the middle of the night and terrifying honest folk out of their beds!”
“No, don't, missus, he's a poor zany, he doesn't mean any harm—you leave him to me—”
“I told you!” said the farmer, staying safely behind his wife. “Didn't I? Eh?”
“Yes, you did,” Jack agreed. “You told me something, anyway.”
“None of this … you know,” the farmer added.
“You take that horrible thing away,” said the farmer's wife, “and you get out of here right now, and don't you come back!”
“Certainly, missus,” said Jack, “and what about our wages?”
“Wages?” she said. “You're not getting any wages. Clear off, you and your monster both!”
Jack turned to the Scarecrow, who hadn't heard any of what the farmer's wife had said. In fact, he was still sobbing in despair.
“Now then, master, what's the trouble?” Jack said.
“She's already engaged!” the Scarecrow howled. “She's going to marry a rake!”
“Oh, that's bad luck,” said Jack. “Still, look on the bright side—”
“I shall do the decent thing, of course,” the Scarecrow went on, struggling to control his emotions. “My dear young lady,” he said to the broom, “nothing would make me stand between you and your happiness, if your heart is already given to the gentleman in the barn. But I warn him,” he said, raising his voice and looking in at all the tools leaning on the wall, “he had better treat this broom like the precious creature she is, and make her happiness the center of his life, or he will face my wrath!”
With a last, choking sob, he handed the broom gently to Jack. Jack took her into the barn and stood her next to the rake.
When he got back outside, the Scarecrow was speaking to the farmer and his wife.
“I am sorry for waking you up,” he said, “but I make no excuses for the passionate expression of my feelings. After all, that is the one thing that distinguishes us from the animals.”
“Mad,” said the farmer's wife. “Barmy. Go on, get out, clear off down the road and don't come back.”
The Scarecrow bowed as gracefully as he could. “Well, dear,” the farmer said, “mustn't … you know. Not so many, umm, about these days, eh? Sort of thing …”
“He's raving mad, and I want him gone!” she said. “Also he's a horrible-looking monster, and he's frightened the donkey. Scram!” she said again, raising the frying pan.
“Come on, master,” said Jack. “We'll seek our fortune somewhere else. We've slept under hedges before, and it's a nice warm night.”
So side by side the Scarecrow and his servant set off down the moonlit road. From time to time the Scarecrow would sigh heavily and turn back with such a look of anguish on his turnip that Jack felt sure the broom would leave her rake and fall in love with him if she could; but it was too late.
“Oh yes,” said the farmer, “he was definitely … you know.”
“Mad as a hatter!” said his wife. “A dangerous lunatic. Foreign, too. S
houldn't have been let out.”
“I see,” said Mr. Cercorelli. “And when did he leave?”
“When was it now,” said the farmer. “About … er …”
“Middle of the night,” snapped his wife. “What d'you want to know for, anyway? You his keeper?”
“In a manner of speaking, that is so. I am charged by my employer to bring this scarecrow back where he belongs.”
“Ah,” said the farmer. “So it's a case of, umm, is it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know, touch of the old, er, as it were. Eh?”
Mr. Cercorelli gathered his papers and stood up.
“You put it very accurately, sir,” he said. “Thank you for your help.”
“You going to lock him up when you catch him?” demanded the farmer's wife.
“Oh, I can assure you,” said Mr. Cercorelli, “that is the least of it.”
Chapter Seven
The Misty Cart
“Jack,” said the Scarecrow next morning, “now that my heart is broken, I think we should set out on the open road and seek our fortune.”
“What about your estate in Spring Valley, master?”
“Ah yes, indeed. We must earn enough money to set the place in order. Then we shall go back and look after it.”
I hope there's plenty of food there, Jack thought.
The Scarecrow strode out briskly, and Jack trotted along beside him. There were plenty of things to look at, and although the Scarecrow's heart was broken, his curiosity about the world was undimmed.
“Why has that building burned down?” he'd say, or “I wonder why that old lady is climbing a ladder,” or “D'you know, Jack, it's an extraordinary thing, but we haven't heard a bird for hours. Why would that be, do you think?”
“I think the soldiers have been here,” Jack told him. “They probably burned the house down and took all the farmworkers away, so the old lady's got to mend the roof herself. As for the birds—why, the soldiers must have eaten up all the food and left none for the birds, not even a grain of wheat.”
“Hmm,” said the Scarecrow. “Soldiers, eh? Do they do that sort of thing?”
“They're the worst people in the world, soldiers,” said Jack.
“Worse than birds?”
“Much worse. The only thing to do when the soldiers come is hide and keep very, very quiet.”
“What do they look like?”
“Well—”
But before Jack could answer, the Scarecrow's attention was caught by something else.
“Look!” he cried, pointing in excitement. “What's that?”
There was a caravan coming toward them, pulled by an ancient horse that was so skinny you could count all its ribs. The caravan was covered in painted stars and moons and mystic symbols, and sitting on the box holding the reins was a man almost as skinny as the horse, wearing a long, pointed hat and a robe covered in more stars and moons.
The Scarecrow gazed at it all with great admiration. As soon as he saw them, the man waved and shook the reins to make the horse stand still. The poor old beast was only too glad to have a rest. The man jumped off the box and scampered over to the Scarecrow.
“Good day to you, sir! Good day, my lord!” he said, bowing low and plucking at the Scarecrow's sleeve.
“Good day to you, sir,” the Scarecrow said.
“Master,” said Jack, “I don't think—”
But the stranger with the mystic robes had seized the Scarecrow's road-sign hand and was scrutinizing it closely.
“Ah!” he said. “Aha! Ha! I see great fortune in this hand!”
“Really?” said the Scarecrow, impressed. “How do you do that?”
“By means of the mystic arts!”
“Oh!” said the Scarecrow. “Jack, we must get a misty cart! Just like this gentleman's one. Then we'd know things, too. We could make our fortune and find our way to Spring Valley and take it—”
“Spring Valley, did you say, sir?” said the stranger. “Would you be a member of the celebrated Buffaloni family, my lord?”
“I don't think so,” said the Scarecrow.
“Ah! I understand! They've called you in as a consultant, to take it in hand. I hear that the Buffalonis are doing splendid things in the field of industry. Draining all those springs and wells and putting up wonderful factories! Yes? No?”
Seeing that the Scarecrow was baffled, the astrologer smoothly went on:
“But let me read your horoscope and look deep into the crystal ball. Before the power of my gaze, the veil of time is drawn aside and the mysteries of the future are revealed. Come into my caravan for a consultation!”
“Master,” Jack whispered, “this'll cost us money, and we haven't got any. Besides, he's an old fraud—”
“Oh no, my boy, you've got it wrong,” said the Scarecrow. “I'm a pretty good judge, and this gentle-man's mind is on higher things than fraud. His thoughts dwell in the realm of the sublime, Jack!”
“Quite right, sir! You are a profound and perceptive thinker!” said the mystic, beckoning them into the caravan and uncovering a crystal ball on a little table.
They all sat down. Waving his fingers in a mystical way, the astrologer peered deeply into the crystal.
“Ah!” he said. “As I suspected. The planetary fluminations are dark and obscure. The only way of disclarifying the astroplasm is to cast your horo-scope, my dear sir, which I can do for a very modest fee.”
“Well, that's that, then,” said Jack, standing up, “because we haven't got a penny between us. Good day—”
“No, Jack, wait!” said the Scarecrow, banging his head.
“What are you doing, master?” said Jack. “Stop it—you'll hurt yourself!”
“Ah—there it is!” cried the Scarecrow, and out of a crack in his turnip there fell a little gold coin.
Jack and the mystic pounced at once, but the mystic got there first.
“Excellent!” he said, nipping the coin between his long, horselike teeth. “By a remarkable coincidence, this is exactly the right fee. I shall consult the stars at once.”
“Where did that gold coin come from, master?” said Jack, amazed.
“Oh, it's been in there for a while,” the Scarecrow told him.
“But—but—if—if—” Jack said, tearing his hair.
The Scarecrow took no notice. He was watching the astrologer, who took a dusty book from a shelf and opened it to show charts and columns of numbers. He ran a finger swiftly down them, muttering learnedly.
“You see what he's doing?” whispered the Scarecrow. “This is clever, Jack, this is very deep.”
“Ahhhhh!” said the astrologer in a long, quavering wail. “I see great fortune in the stars!”
“Go on, go on!” said the Scarecrow.
“Oh yes,” said the mystic, licking a dirty finger and turning over several pages. “And there is more!”
“You see, Jack? What a good thing we met this gentleman!” said the Scarecrow.
The astrologer suddenly drew in his breath, peering at the symbols in his book. So did the Scarecrow. They both held it for a long time, until the astrologer let it out in a long whistle. So did the Scarecrow.
Then, as if it were too heavy a burden to bear, the astrologer slowly lifted his head. The Scarecrow's little muddy eyes were as wide as they could get—his straw was standing on end—his great gaping mouth hung open.
“I have never seen a destiny as strange and profound as this,” said the astrologer in a low, quavery voice. “The paranomical ecliptic of the clavicle of Solomon, multiplied by the solar influence in the trine of the zaphoristical catanastomoid, divided by the meridian of the vernal azimuth and composticated by the diaphragm of Ezekiel, reveals …”
“Yes?”
“Means …”
“Yes? Yes?”
“Foretells …”
“Yes? Yes? Yes?”
The mystic paused for a moment, and his eyes swiveled to look at Jack, then swiveled
back to the Scarecrow.
“Danger,” he said solemnly.
“Oh no!” said the Scarecrow.
“Followed by joy—”
“Yes!”
“And then trouble—”
“No!”
“Leading to glory—”
“Yes!”
“Turning to sorrow—”
“No, no, no!”
The Scarecrow was in mortal fear.
The astrologer slowly closed the book and moved it out of Jack's reach. Then his upper lip drew back so suddenly that it made Jack jump. Beaming like a crocodile in Holy Orders, the old man said:
“But the suffering will be crowned with success—”
“Hoorah!” cried the Scarecrow.
“And the tears will end in triumph—”
“Thank goodness for that!”
“And health, wealth, and happiness will be yours for as long as you live!”
“Oh, I'm so glad! Oh, what a relief!” said the Scarecrow, clutching his turnip. “There you are, Jack, you see, this gentleman knows what he's talking about, all right. Oh, I was worried there! But it all came right in the end. Thank you, sir! A thousand thanks! We can go on our way with confidence and fortitude. My goodness, what an experience.”
“My pleasure,” said the mystic, bowing low. “Take care as you leave. The steps are rickety. Good day!”
He gave Jack a suspicious look, and Jack gave him one in return.
“Just think of that, Jack,” said the Scarecrow in an awed and humble voice as the caravan slowly drew away. “We have been inside a misty cart, and we have heard the secrets of the future!”
“Never mind that, master,” said Jack. “Have you got any more money in your head?”
“Let me see,” said the Scarecrow, and he banged his turnip vigorously. Then he shook it hard. “Hmm,” he said, “something's rattling. Let me see …”
He turned his head sideways and shook it. Something fell out and bounced onto the road.
The two of them bent over to look at it.
“It's a pea,” said Jack.
“Ah yes,” said the Scarecrow modestly. “That's my brain, you know.”
The Scarecrow and His Servant Page 5
