Aeon Ten

by Aeon Authors

  I made no move to stop her. In the deep, aching silence that followed, I watched the once-straight candles twist and melt into pools of wax.

  * * * *

  The scarecrow wasted with neglect. By late autumn, it hung in tatters from the pole. Its head split, straw spilling from the gash like golden blood. I thought to go to it then, but as I gathered my mending basket, Ger and his wife strolled past, hand in hand, through the stubbled corn. They stopped beside the pole. Ger's wife fingered the scarecrow's sleeve. The wind whipped her dress, pressing it against her rounded belly. She rested a hand on her stomach then let Ger lead her away.

  A week later, Emma Grey said, “The scarecrow is old and useless. It is fortunate it survived the harvest. Now you must make preparations for a new scarecrow."

  "A man of my own creation,” I said. “No doubt I must call this one husband too?"

  Emma gazed at me evenly. “Just treat your new husband better than you did the last. The fields would be barren without a scarecrow to watch over them. Is there anything special that you wish?"

  When my cheeks stopped burning, I said, “A blue jacket and white trousers. And two buttons, the color of black sheep's wool."

  An indulgent smile crossed her face. “And wool?"

  "If possible."

  Emma's milky eyes disappeared in the wrinkles of her smile. She nodded, then picked up an onion from my table. “Such a lovely garden, Chloe Scarecrow,” she said, “and every bit as bountiful as Mollie's."

  * * * *

  Emma and Thomas brought the bundle of clothing, rags and wool hours before the first snow. My excitement surprised me. I held the jacket to the window and wondered at the broad shoulders that would fill such a coat. Of a deep royal blue, the jacket showed wear only at the elbows and along the hem. The white trousers were fine and unpatched. A ball of uncombed wool peeked from the top of one glove.

  "Will they do, Mrs. Scarecrow?” Emma said.

  I folded the trousers. “They will."

  "If you need anything else,” Thomas said. He gazed at me, his eyes aflame. A thrill fanned through me.

  Emma slipped her arm through Thomas', and, leaning into his stocky frame, steered him toward the door. “We had best be off,” she said, “or we shall be forced to wait out the storm. Look after your husband, Chloe Scarecrow."

  The door banged shut behind them. Draped over a chair, the blue jacket seemed suddenly shabby.

  * * * *

  Through the long winter nights I sewed, fashioning the scarecrow's head from a bag of cloth. With beet juice, I applied a mouth below the brown button eyes. I combed the dark wool, stitching it along the crown so that it hung in waves across the forehead. I embroidered a nose with pale thread. “A handsome man, my husband,” I told myself as the needle wove in and out of the cloth.

  I imagined my husband. With broad shoulders and thick, strong hands, he stood a full head taller than I. A sailor, he promised to take me away from this cottage. He promised to take me to the sea. We would build a life for ourselves far from people who saw me as a poor lame thing. And no one would call me Mrs. Scarecrow again.

  His lips would burn against mine. His hands would caress the slope of my back, grasping my buttocks as he pulled me closer still. Then his fingers would glide along the backs of my thighs, stroking and kneading the whole and the useless leg. And he would not turn away.

  "Chloe,” he would say, and only that.

  I made my husband a heart of red cotton embroidered with my name so that he would love only me.

  * * * *

  In early spring, when the breeze ruffled the tender shoots of corn and wheat, Thomas Halpern and Joseph Dunne strode across the field and pulled the thing from the pole. The old scarecrow fell to the ground in a swirl of tatters. The two men stepped over it and hoisted the new scarecrow into place. The new one was stouter than the last; I hoped it would take the wind longer to rob it of its form. Nor would it ever bow its head to the wind, not with the ash wand I had inserted in its neck.

  From my garden, I watched the men. Thomas glanced over his shoulder at me. Joseph rose from a crouch, the remains of the old scarecrow cradled in his long, twig-thin arms. A frown of concentration dulled his hatchet-like features. He nudged Thomas and the two of them walked across the field to join me. “Are you ready, Mrs. Scarecrow?” Joseph said.

  I nodded. In the field, the new scarecrow stood tall against the afternoon sky.

  Joseph smiled patronizingly. “You had best fetch a shawl. It will be cold when we bring you home."

  "I'll fetch it,” Thomas said.

  "A black one if she has it,” Joseph said, laying the rags in the back of the cart. “Out of respect."

  We rode to the village in silence. As we clattered between the houses, everyone fell in step behind us and followed us to the green. There, a large stack of wood waited. I glanced at the heap of straw and tattered cloth in the back of the cart. Mollie Scarecrow had mourned each scarecrow, wringing her hands and wailing over their crumpled bodies. I felt nothing for this bundle of scrap.

  Joseph halted the cart. He and Thomas dismounted, then lifted me from the seat. People pressed against me, offering condolences and patting my shoulder. Mother approached but turned away when her gaze met mine. I never saw Father. Somewhere in the early dusk, children sang about Chloe Scarecrow and how no man would have her. Matronly voices silenced them.

  Emma drew me aside and patted my hand. “I'm sorry about your husband."

  "But I have another,” I said, “who waits for me at home. All he requires is that I mend his clothes."

  "Yes, so you have,” said Emma.

  We stared at each other until someone handed me a glass of ale. Emma nodded and walked away.

  Across the green, old Martin Dunne tucked the fiddle under his chin and lifted his bow. He played a slow air. The tune lilted and fell. Joseph set a tankard of ale at his father's feet, but the fiddler never once looked down. His bow glided from the first tune to the next, brightening the green with song.

  Now and then, people hovered beside me and spoke to me in polite, halting words. “It looks to be a good spring,” Nora Halpern said. Then men bent over the wood, placing the branches and kindling just so. Ger Malins circled the heap of dried wood, torch in hand. “How is the garden?” asked the man next to me. I pressed my lips together. Ger Malins touched the flame to the wood four times, then stepped back. Stout with motherhood, his wife joined him in the glow of the firelight. Ger smiled at the tiny babe in her arms. “Will you bless the child, Mrs. Scarecrow?” someone said.

  "I have,” I said, and turned away.

  The women of the village gathered ‘round me then and led me to a small pyre just beyond the flames. The remains of the scarecrow lay there, its flattened arms crossing its chest. “You may say one last farewell to your husband,” Emma said.

  I leaned on my crutch, grasping it with both hands. The heaviness of my heart gave way to hatred. I glared at the rags before me. Jaw clenched, I looked up at Emma. “May God forgive you and welcome you,” I said. I tilted my chin. “My husband."

  Emma fixed me with an understanding look. Then she nodded to Thomas and Joseph. While old Martin Dunne played a dirge, the two men lifted the pyre and placed it on the flames. The fire crackled and sparked, consuming the scarecrow. As the ashes caught in the swirling smoke, the fiddler slid into a lively tune. Soon everyone of able body took a partner and danced upon the green.

  In the small hours of the morning Joseph and Thomas came to where I sat alone by the coals. At my feet lay snapped twigs and torn bits of cloth, whatever had fallen within my frustrated, enraged reach. “We'll take you home, Chloe Scarecrow,” Thomas said. Joseph blinked.

  Joseph fell asleep before we rattled out of the village. His head lolled against my shoulder. I pushed him away. Thomas watched the road ahead. “Yours is a lonely life, Chloe Scarecrow,” he said. “You are too fine a woman for such a fate."

  I swallowed.

  His voice soothe
d me. “You are too young, too fair of face,” he said. “Ger Malins is a sorry fool to have allowed them to imprison you in that cottage."

  My shoulder quaked with each shallow breath. Biting my lower lip until I tasted blood, I looked out over the moonlit fields.

  "I would never have allowed such a thing,” Thomas said. “Never."

  A tear slid down my cheek.

  He clucked to the horses, reining in just outside the garden. He cupped my face in his hands. “Chloe,” he said. Then he kissed me.

  Warm and probing, the kiss tasted of tears and blood. Still its sweetness filled me.

  He pulled away. Although moonlight illuminated his smile, a shadow hid his eyes. He nodded toward Joseph, then climbed from the cart and held out his arms to me. He grasped my waist, spinning me once before he set me down. He reached for my crutch and handed it to me. Arm in arm, we walked to the cottage.

  On the doorstep, we kissed again. His fingers strayed along my bosom. Thrilled and frightened, I brushed at his hand. He squeezed my breast. A moan caught in my throat; my body ached for him. Then I remembered Nora's suffering face.

  I pushed him away. “No. You're a married man."

  He pulled me close. “Chloe, Chloe,” he said. “Why think of such things?"

  His hand followed the curve of my back to my buttocks. “Thomas,” I said. “Thomas, please."

  "I will not come again if you send me away now,” he said. He turned, his face illuminated by the moon. A mixture of triumph and pity sparkled in his eyes. “Never again. You are a fine woman, Chloe. It would be a shame to waste that. No one else will have you, only me. No one else can see beyond your useless leg—"

  I ground my teeth, growling low in my throat. “Was it pity, then, that caused you to seek me out?” I said. “As no one else would have me, I would be glad of any attention? Even that of a man who twists my loneliness to his own ends?"

  He spat. “You must learn to take what charity you can, Mrs. Scarecrow, or be satisfied with nothing!"

  With that, Thomas stalked away. He climbed into the cart and turned the horses’ heads, then flicked the reins. The horses started, lunging forward. Poor Joseph Dunne jolted awake with a cry, clutching at Thomas as the cart flew down the lane. I cradled myself with one arm, a chill anger quaking through me. Even so, I burned to have some man touch me as he had.

  I opened the cottage door, then glanced back at the scarecrow, fine and stout in the moonlight. Leaving the door ajar, I skirted the garden and hobbled across the field. My crutch caught in the furrows, my lame foot plowing the soft earth. I stopped beneath the scarecrow. The breeze lifted his hair so that it curled around his cap. His eyes glinted like stars. I held my breath, my lower jaw trembling as I willed the tears away. I stood tall and straight, my head erect, and mustered the strength to steady my voice. “When will you come lie with me, Husband?"

  The scarecrow smiled with his beet-red mouth and his button eyes. I turned and plodded home.

  * * * *

  That night, the door creaked open. My throat cinched shut. I listened to the hum of crickets until their music stopped, cut short by the door's closing. A silhouette waited by the window. The figure walked toward me, the coals lending it a golden sheen as it neared the hearth. I inhaled and lay still, slipping my hands from under the bedclothes, my fingers ready to rake Thomas’ face when he bent over me.

  The figure knelt beside the bed, its broad shoulders bowed over me. A hand rested on my good leg. “Chloe?” he said in a voice as green and unformed as spring.

  It was no one I knew.

  "Chloe, are you awake?"

  I slid my leg from under his hand. “Who's there?"

  He laughed and leaned forward. With his thumb and forefinger, he pinched my chin playfully. “Only your husband, Mrs. Scarecrow."

  I sat up and inched away until my back met the wall. “My husband is a thing of straw and cloth."

  Hurt colored his voice. “Chloe..."

  "Light the candle, then,” I said. “Let me look at you."

  He rose and took the candle from the bedside table, then bent over the coals to light the wick. I shifted so that I could see out the window. Only the blue coat hung from the pole. To delay him, I said, “And who is my husband?"

  "You want to know my name?” he said, surprised. “Why?"

  Dread and desire quickened in me. I wanted more than his name—what, I wasn't sure. “Because I want to know."

  "Darrell,” he said, and slipped into bed beside me.

  His warmth startled me—that, and the press of him against me: his legs, his arms, his soft belly, his member. I shivered with the strangeness of it. He lifted the hair from my shoulder and said, “We will do nothing, if you choose it. Just let me hold you tonight."

  I nodded but the nearness of him and his sweet, clovered scent excited me. With my fingertips, I traced his chest, tickling the downy hair along his breastbone, straying to touch his nipples. I stopped, afraid of the power building in me. He cupped my cheek in his palm, then stroked my temple, bending over to kiss me, full and long. I drew back, then nipped his jaw and we kissed again. Hesitantly, I pulled him to me. We loved one another.

  Afterwards, I cried. He brushed the hair from my face and kissed my cheek. I clung to him, burying my face in his neck. My tears pooled in the hollow of his throat. He caressed my neck. “Chloe,” he said.

  "Hush,” I said, setting a finger to his lips. “Say only that."

  We loved each other again.

  * * * *

  I awoke alone. Two dents hollowed the pillow; a piece of straw rested in the farthest. Clutching the collar of my dressing gown, I crept to the window. My husband swayed on the pole, his arms flapping in the breeze, his button eyes gazing out across the spring fields. I wondered, could he see me? The wind caught his hat and tipped it a bit. I raised my hand. Joseph Dunne trudged into view and returned my wave. I hurried from the window.

  I sat on the bed, staring into my entwined hands. Had I dreamt it all or had Darrell come to me? I picked up the bit of straw and spun it through my fingers. The imprint of his head, his scent rising from the tumbled bedclothes, the ache between my thighs, all of it assured me that he had been there. I dressed and went outside.

  Men and women drifted to work, their eyes clouded with last night's drink. A few greeted me with sullen nods. Ger Malins passed by, stopping at odd intervals to pinch the bridge of his nose. He stumbled, shivering as if to rid himself of the previous night. Pity filled me, nothing more.

  I walked across the field and stopped before my husband. His features, outlined in small, careful stitches, remained still and passive, but his mouth seemed redder, a little bruised. I touched my lips and felt a smile form beneath my fingers.

  "And will you come to me every night?” I whispered.

  In my imagination I saw those stained lips twitch into a smile. I blushed and walked back to the garden.

  "Can you believe it?” I heard one of the men say. “No more than a child and here she is talking to the thing as Mollie Scarecrow might have done."

  * * * *

  My husband came every night, striding across the fields after the workers had gone home. He would let himself in, then sit beside me. He said little, although he had a way of looking at me, with his head tilted forward and his eyes reflecting the firelight. A smile played across his lips that seemed to say, “No need for words, Chloe—it is just us two."

  He laughed easily, a kind laugh like leaves tumbling in the wind. I asked him once why he laughed so often and he said, “Because it is good to be here—and because you wanted my name.” I giggled then, nervously. He pulled me to him and wrestled me into his lap, nipping at my neck and shoulders until I nipped his back. Delighted, he turned my face to his and kissed me.

  One night, as the fields ripened with early summer, Darrell pulled his chair next to mine. He gazed at me. “And what will you do with my name?” he said.

  "Use it to call you in from the fields,” I said.
>
  "Oh?” He grinned and placed a hand on my knee. His shirt sleeve rode up, exposing his right forearm. Thinner than the left, the wrist bore a weeping gash. I touched the skin above the cut. “What is this?” I asked.

  He poked it. “The effects of time and weather."

  Shaken, I rose. My good knee threatened to give way. “It needs tending,” I said.

  Darrell caught my hand. “Wait—will you put salve on it? It will do no good."

  I sank into my chair, staring at the wound. Beneath the watery gloss, the exposed muscle was golden, not red or pink. “Tomorrow, then,” I said.

  The next day, I trudged across the fields, the mending basket slung over one arm. I tugged at Joseph Dunne's elbow. “I need you to lower my husband from the pole,” I said.

  Joseph set his hoe aside. He glanced at my husband, then he glanced at me. “There is nothing wrong with the scarecrow."

  "Please,” I said. “Just lower him."

  "Ger, Edwin,” Joseph said.

  I sat at the foot of the pole. The men lowered Darrell into my arms. Light and insubstantial, his body radiated the warmth of the sun. I lifted his arm, then probed the tear with my fingers. A bit of chaff puffed from the split cloth. I reached into the mending basket and withdrew a wad of straw. I stuffed my husband's arm, plumping it, then sorted through the basket, nudging aside scraps and bobbins until I found the packet of needles.

  Later, as I tied off the thread, Thomas Halpern strolled by. Although he avoided tripping over me, he did not look at me. I shivered; had I looked into his eyes, I thought, I would not have seen myself reflected there. I stroked my husband's coarse, cotton arm.

  That evening, by candlelight and hearthlight, I studied Darrell's face. A tautness replaced the fleshiness of youth—he looked to be a man of twenty-five or twenty-six. Around his eyes, lines foreshadowed age. As I reached to touch his hair, still dark and fine, he took my hand and pressed it to his cheek. His eyes sparkled. Rising, he lifted me from my chair and carried me to bed.

  In the wake of our lovemaking, I compared his kisses to those of real men, to those of Ger Malins and Thomas Halpern. His were sweeter, kinder than theirs. His tasted of summer. His hands, tracing my face and the curl of my body, glided over me without Thomas’ desperate need or Ger's clumsy shame. But he was not a man, he was not real....