The Scarecrow and His Servant

by Philip Pullman

  “It might have been poisoned.”

  “How dare you!” said the Scarecrow.

  “Stop him! Stop him!” cried Bernard, fluttering in terror. “You seen the look he give me? You heard him? Help! He's going to murder me!”

  “That's quite enough,” snapped Granny Raven.

  “I need compensation, I do,” said Bernard. “I need counseling. It's stolen all my youth and happiness away, this has. I'll never be the same. I need therapy.”

  “Clear off home and stop whining,” said Granny Raven, “or I'll give you some therapy that'll sort you out for good.”

  Bernard crept along the edge of the witness box, flinching dramatically as he came near the Scarecrow, although the Scarecrow didn't move. Then he flew straight for the open window and vanished.

  “Our final witness,” said Granny Raven with a look of distaste after Bernard, “is the Scarecrow's personal attendant.”

  “What, me?” said Jack.

  “Yes, boy, you. Get a move on.”

  So Jack went into the witness box. The lawyers were busily objecting, but the judge wearily said, “Let the boy give evidence. The jury will soon see what rubbish it is.”

  Granny Raven said, “Tell the jury what happened on the island where you were marooned.”

  “Oh, right,” said Jack. “We were left on this island, and there wasn't any food, and I was going to starve to death. So Lord Scarecrow very generously let me eat his head. All of it, except the brain, obviously, being as that was eaten already. So I started to eat it, and bit by bit I ate almost all of it, and it kept me alive. And then that coconut fell down and I stuck it on his neck, and very good he looks, too. If it wasn't for Lord Scarecrow's generosity in letting me eat his head, I'd be nothing now but a skeleton.”

  “So there, your lordship, members of the jury,” said Granny Raven, “there is our entire case. The United Benevolent Improvement Society, which is currently running poison factories in Spring Valley, and draining all the wells, is a front organization for the Buffaloni family. Mr. Pandolfo wanted to keep Spring Valley out of the hands of the Buffalonis and leave it to the Scarecrow. The only remaining particles of the original Scarecrow are now indissolubly mingled with those of Bernard the blackbird and Jack the servant; and I shall obtain power of attorney to act for Bernard on behalf of all the birds, since he is a feckless wretch; but we maintain that the kingdom of the birds, together with Jack the servant, are now the true and indisputable owners of Spring Valley, in perpetuity.”

  “The jury hasn't heard my summing up yet,” said the judge. “They can begin by forgetting everything they have just heard. The testimony of the Scarecrow's witnesses is to be disregarded, on the grounds that it is more favorable to the Scarecrow than to the United Benevolent Improvement Society, a charity of the utmost worthiness, whose trustees are gentlemen of the highest honesty and integrity, besides employing a large number of you. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you know what's good for you—I mean, you know your duty. Go to the jury room and decide that the Scarecrow should lose this case.”

  “No need, our lordship,” said the foreman. “We've already decided.”

  “Excellent! It only remains for me to congratulate the United—”

  “No,” said the foreman, “we reckon the Scarecrow wins.”

  “What?”

  All the lawyers were on their feet at once, protesting loudly, but the foreman of the jury took no notice.

  “We don't care about all that,” he said. “It's common sense. Don't matter if he is all different bits from what he was, he's still the same Scarecrow. Any fool can see that. And we're all fed up with the fountains being dry. So what we decide is this: Spring Valley is to be owned by the birds and by the servant and by the Scarecrow equally. And that's it. That's the voice of the people.”

  A great cheer broke out from the public gallery. The judge called for silence, but no one took any notice. The lawyers were still arguing, but no one took any notice of them, either.

  The Scarecrow and Jack were both lifted onto the shoulders of the crowd and carried out to the square. Granny Raven went to perch on the fountain while the Scarecrow made a speech.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “I am heartily grateful for your support, and I give you my word of honor that as soon as we have closed the poison factories, we shall let all the springs flow again, so that this fountain will flow with fresh water for everyone.”

  More cheers from the crowd—but then they all fell silent and looked around. From the town hall a group of men, all wearing expensive clothes and dark glasses and looking stern, were walking toward the Scarecrow.

  Jack heard whispers from the crowd.

  “Luigi—Piero—Federico—Silvio—Giuseppe— Marcello! It's the whole Buffaloni family.”

  “Well, master,” said Jack, “it looks like a fight. Let's run away, quick.”

  “Certainly not!” said the Scarecrow, and he faced the Buffalonis boldly, coconut high, umbrella poised, the very model of a people's hero.

  The Buffalonis stopped right in front of him, six of them, big rich powerful men in shiny suits. Everyone held their breath.

  Then the Buffaloni in the middle said, “Our congratulations to you, my friend!” and held out his hand to shake.

  The Scarecrow shook it warmly, and then all the other Buffalonis gathered around, slapping him on the back, ruffling his coconut, patting him on the shoulder, shaking his hand, embracing him warmly.

  “So we lose a law case!” said the chief Buffaloni. “It's a big world—there are plenty of other enterprises! Plenty of room in this beautiful world for Buffalonis and Scarecrows!”

  “Good luck to you, Lord Scarecrow! Our best wishes for all your business ventures!”

  “If you ever need our help, just ask!”

  “We respect a brave opponent!”

  “Buffalonis and Scarecrows are good friends from now on—the best of friends!”

  And then a café owner produced some wine, and the Buffalonis and the Scarecrow drank a toast to friendship, and happy laughter filled the square; and presently someone brought out an accordion, and in a moment the whole crowd was singing and dancing and laughing and drinking and throwing flowers, with the Scarecrow at the heart of the celebrations.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Medical Mystery

  They slept that night in the farmhouse in Spring Valley. Jack woke up next morning to hear his master calling.

  “Jack! Jack! Help! I don't feel at all well!”

  “That's all right, master,” said Jack, hurrying along to help. “You had too much wine last night. Come for a walk—it'll clear your head.”

  “No, it's not my head,” the Scarecrow told him. “It's my legs and my arms and my back. I've been poisoned. Help!”

  And he did look in a bad way, it was perfectly true. Even his coconut had gone pale. When he stood up, he fell over; when he lay down, he groaned; and he was getting twitches in his arms and legs.

  “Twitches, master?”

  “Yes, Jack! Dreadful ghastly twitches! It's horrible! It feels as if I'm being eaten alive! Call the doctor at once!”

  So Jack ran to the town and called the doctor. The Scarecrow was a celebrity now, thanks to the trial, and the doctor gathered up his bag and hurried along right away, followed by several onlookers.

  They found the Scarecrow twitching badly and groaning at the top of his voice.

  “What is it, doctor?” said Jack. “Listen to him! He's in a terrible state! What can it be?”

  The doctor took his stethoscope and listened to the Scarecrow's chest.

  “Oh, dear me,” he said. “This is bad. Let me take your temperature.”

  “No, no! Don't do that!” protested the Scarecrow. “If you take my temperature away, I'd be cold all through. As it is, I'm hot and cold, both together. Oh, it's horrible! Oh, no one knows what I'm suffering!”

  “What other symptoms are you feeling?”

  “Internal conniptions.
And a nameless fear.”

  “A nameless fear? Dear me, that's not good at all. A fear of what?”

  “I don't know! Horses! Eggs! Heights! Oh! Oh! I feel terrible! Help! Help!”

  And the Scarecrow leapt all over the room, capering and skipping and prancing like a goat.

  “What's he doing, Doctor?” said Jack. “I've never seen him like this. Is he going to die?”

  “He's clearly been bitten by a spider,” explained the doctor. “Dancing is quite the best cure, all the medical authorities agree.”

  The Scarecrow overheard him and sank to the floor with terror.

  “A spider! Oh no, Doctor, anything but that! I'll go mad with despair!”

  “Better keep on dancing, then, master,” said Jack.

  But the poor Scarecrow couldn't dance another step.

  “No, I can't move!” he cried. “All the strength has drained from my body—my nameless fear is going all the way down to my toes—”

  “Let me feel your pulse,” said the doctor.

  The Scarecrow held out his left hand. As soon as the doctor took his wrist, the umbrella opened, startling the doctor, who stepped back in alarm.

  “Try the other one,” said Jack. “Here, master, point at something.”

  The doctor took his road sign in one hand and a large silver watch in the other. Jack watched the Scarecrow, and the Scarecrow watched the doctor, and the doctor watched the watch.

  After a minute the doctor solemnly declared, “This patient has no signs of life at all.”

  The Scarecrow let out a piercing yell.

  “Oh no! I'm dead! Help! Help!”

  “You can't be dead yet, master,” said Jack, “not if you're making a racket like that. Can't you find anything that you can cure, doctor?”

  “Dear me, this is a very bad case, a very poor case indeed. There's only one thing for it,” said the doctor.

  “What?” said the Scarecrow and Jack together.

  “I shall have to operate. Lie down on the bed, please.”

  The poor Scarecrow was quivering with terror.

  “Aren't you going to put him to sleep first?” said Jack.

  “Of course I am,” said the doctor. “My goodness, do you take me for a quack?”

  The Scarecrow heard the word quack and looked around for the duck, but the doctor took a rubber hammer and knocked him on the coconut. The Scarecrow fell down, stunned.

  “Now what?” said Jack.

  “Undo his clothing,” said the doctor. “Then hand me my penknife.”

  Everyone gasped and craned closer to look. Jack unfastened the Scarecrow's coat and laid bare his shirt, with the straw sticking stiffly out of every gap and his poor wooden neck sticking out of the top.

  His master was lying so still that Jack thought he really must be dead, and before the doctor could do anything, Jack flung himself across the Scarecrow and cried and sobbed.

  “Oh, master, don't be dead! Please don't be dead! I don't know what I'd do without you, master! Please don't die!”

  He sobbed and howled and clung to the poor old Scarecrow, and nothing would move him. Several of the bystanders began to cry, too, and before long the room was filled with weeping and wailing, and every eye was gushing with tears. Even the doctor had to find his handkerchief and blow his nose vigorously.

  The birds had heard the news, and a great lament went up from all the fields round about, and the bushes and trees were full of piteous cries:

  “The Scarecrow's dying!”

  “He's been poisoned!”

  “He's been assassinated!”

  And the loudest wails of lamentation came from the room in the farmhouse in Spring Valley where the doctor and Jack and all the townsfolk were gathered around the Scarecrow. But they didn't come from the people, they came from the Scarecrow himself, because all the noise had woken him up.

  He leapt off the bed and cried:

  “Oh! Oh! I'm dying! I'm poisoned! Oh, what a loss to the world! Treachery! Assassination! Murder! Oh, Jack, my dear boy, has he cut me open yet?”

  “He was just about to.”

  “Oh! Oh! Oh! I feel terrible! I've got conniptions all up and down my spine! I feel as if a million little ghosties were nibbling me! Oh—oh—there goes my leg—I'm falling apart, Jack! Help! Help!”

  The Scarecrow was running around the room in terror, and the doctor was running after him trying to hit him with the rubber hammer, to put him to sleep again. Jack was running behind them gathering up all the bits that fell on the floor—some string, a bit of wood from somewhere up his trousers, lots of straw—and everyone else was wailing and sobbing.

  Then Jack heard a loud Caw! and looked around in relief.

  “Granny Raven!” he said. “Thank goodness you've come back! Lord Scarecrow's been taken ill, and the doctor says—”

  “Never mind the doctor,” she said, perching on the windowsill. “He doesn't need a doctor. What he needs is a carpenter. So I've gone and fetched one. Here he is.”

  In came an old man wearing a carpenter's apron and carrying a bag of tools.

  “Hold still, Lord Scarecrow,” he said. “Let's have a look at you.”

  “He's my patient!” said the doctor. “Stand back!”

  “I want a second opinion,” cried the Scarecrow. “Let him look!”

  Jack helped the Scarecrow back onto the bed. The carpenter put some glasses on and peered closely at the Scarecrow's legs, and then at the digging stick Jack had put in to replace his spine. He tapped them with a pencil, felt all around them, and looked all the way up and down the faded road sign.

  Then he stood up with a solemn expression. Everyone fell silent.

  “In my professional opinion,” said the carpenter, “this gentleman is suffering from an acute case of woodworm.”

  The Scarecrow gave a shriek of horror. Everyone gasped.

  “And if I'm not mistaken,” the carpenter went on, “he's got termites in his stuffing, and an infestation of deathwatch beetle in his backbone.”

  The Scarecrow looked at Jack in despair and reached for his hand.

  “Can we save him?” Jack said.

  “He needs an immediate transplant,” said the carpenter. “He's got to have a whole new backbone, and he needs his insides cleaned out completely. This is a fresh infestation, mind. It's deeply suspicious. In my professional opinion, all them beetles and insects and woodworms got tipped down his neck yesterday.”

  “The Buffalonis!” Jack cried. “When they all came crowding around to pat him on the back! Assassins! Murderers!”

  The Scarecrow was paralyzed with terror. All he could do was lie there and whimper.

  So Jack ran all through the farm looking for a broomstick, but the only ones he could find were already infested with woodworm, or split down the middle, or soft with dry rot.

  He looked for a stick of any kind, but the only ones he could find were too short, or too bent, or too flimsy.

  Then he ran back to the Scarecrow, who was lying pale and faint on the bed, twitching and whimpering.

  And there were a lot more people in the room. The first visitors had now been joined by several elderly women dressed in black, weeping and wailing and tearing their hair. In those days, every town had a band of professional mourners, and these were the mourners of Bella Fontana. They'd heard about the impending death of Lord Scarecrow and had come to

  offer their services. Besides, they'd missed the death of poor old Mr. Pandolfo, and they wanted to make amends.

  “Ladies,” Jack said, “I know you mean it for the best, but the thing about scarecrows is that what they really like is jolly songs. You got any jolly songs you can sing?”

  “That would be disrespectful!” one of the old ladies said. “We were always told that when someone was on the brink of death, we had to weep and wail, to remind them of where they were going next.”

  “Well, that's very cheerful,” said Jack, “and I'm sure they all appreciate it no end. But it's different with sca
recrows. Songs, dances, jokes, and stories, else you all go home.”

  “Hmph,” said the oldest old lady, but then Jack found a bottle of Mr. Pandolfo's best wine, and they all agreed to try singing and dancing, just to see how it went.

  “Oh, Jack,” whispered the Scarecrow, “I'm not long for this world!”

  “Well, cheer up, master, it could be worse. You're in your own bed, in your own house, on your own farm, and you might have been stuck in a muddy field or lying in splinters on a battlefield or floating about in the sea getting nibbled by fishes. Here you've got clean sheets, and these nice ladies to sing to you, and people looking high and low for a new backbone. But oh, master, don't die! Oh, oh, oh!”

  And poor Jack started to wail and cry again and flung his arms around the Scarecrow, ignoring the danger of catching woodworm.

  And that started the old ladies off again. They'd been singing and dancing to “Funiculi, Funicula,” and “Papa Piccolino,” and they'd just started on “Volare,” but Jack's wails and sobs had them howling and screeching along with him, and then the Scarecrow himself joined in, and there was such a row that they didn't hear the doctor and the carpenter coming back. Only when dozens of birds flew around their heads, and Granny Raven cawed at the top of her voice, did all the crying and howling stop.

  “We got a broomstick,” said the carpenter, “and it's a good'un. This old raven found it for us, and me and the doctor's going to transplant it right away. Everyone's got to go out of the operating theater, for reasons of concentration and hygiene. When the operation is over, Lord Scarecrow'll need quiet and rest and recuperation, and until then, keep your fingers crossed.”

  So all the townspeople left the room, and the doctor and the carpenter, with Jack's help, detached the old worm-eaten spine and emptied out all the beetle-infested straw, and gently and delicately inserted the new stick that Granny Raven had found, and packed the Scarecrow tightly with handfuls of clean fresh straw from the barn.

  “Well,” said the doctor when they'd finished and washed their hands, “we have done all that medical science can do. Now we have to rely on Mother Nature. Keep the patient warm, and make sure that his dressings are changed twice a day. If all goes well—”