by Aeon Authors
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In the small hours of the morning, I cradled the new scarecrow's head in my lap and knotted the last stitch. I sucked my bleeding fingers. With its hair brushed over the broken button, the scarecrow had a wild, rakish expression. A smile might tame it somewhat, I thought. Setting the head aside, I searched the pantry for beets but found none. I picked up the head and drew a mouth with my own blood. I attached the head to the body.
"Stay here by the hearth tonight,” I said. “Tomorrow I will be yours."
Fully dressed, I climbed into bed beside Darrell. Faded straw peeked out of the countless rips and tears; his hair hung thin and colorless. Yet his eyes still shone.
I touched his cheek. “How can you be dead?"
I slept. I dreamt that Darrell pulled me close and kissed the nape of my neck, all the while murmuring in my ear. His breath was light but warm. At dawn I woke, rolling over to face him. Darrell smoothed the hair from my brow.
I sat up. “Darrell?"
His smile lent his sunken cheeks a fullness they did not have, while his eyes, caught in a mesh of wrinkles, glittered in the pale light. “It's been so long, Chloe,” he said. His voice was as brittle as crusted snow.
I took his hand and pressed it to my cheek. “Not dead?"
"Near it. Hush, Chloe, don't cry. It is the way of the seasons."
"Damn the seasons! Darrell, I will keep you here and nurse you—"
"To health? Chloe, it is too late.” He shifted a little and winced. He squinted at the hearth. “You have made a new husband."
"Emma and the others forced me to make him."
He gazed at me with affection. “Forced you? No. All of your life you've let others decide your fate—for the good of the fields, for the good of the village, because that is the way it has always been. You must ask for what you want, Chloe."
My mind filled with visions of empty fields surrounding an empty village. “And if in doing so, I destroy the village?” I said. “I can't do that."
Darrell pinched my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “But just now you were willing to damn the seasons,” he said.
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We dozed. In the late morning I woke, my fingers entwined with those of a dry, rotted glove. I set Darrell's hand by his side and crawled from the bed. My mind numbed, I paced between the old scarecrow and the new until the jangle of the cart stopped before the cottage. I sank to my knees.
Emma knocked and entered, followed by Joseph and Rory. She smiled. “There,” she said, pointing to the new scarecrow.
Without a word, Joseph and Rory carried the straw man from the cottage. Emma went to the bed. She crossed Darrell's hands on his chest as if readying him for burial.
The scream building inside me threatened to burst my lungs. I stood and eased myself between Emma and Darrell. “Emma,” I said, “he still lives."
She patted my hand. “No, Chloe, he does not."
"But he does! Emma if you burn him now, I'll never get over it—"
"But you will,” Emma said soothingly, reaching around me to straighten Darrell's collar. “Mollie did—"
I brushed her hand aside. “I am not Mollie Scarecrow."
"No?” Emma said, her face puckered with spite. “You might as well be! The two of you inventing loves for yourselves, clothing the scarecrow with dreams! And how can you imagine this thing as a husband? How can you want this ancient bundle of rags?"
A tear trickled down my cheek; I clenched my teeth. “And what of Mr. Grey?” I said. “Now that he is old, will you give him up? Do you wish that you had as many husbands as Mollie Scarecrow?"
Emma stared at me. With a snort of disgust, she walked to the door and forced it open. “Joseph, come and take this thing away,” she said. “The bonfire is ready."
I followed her outside. “No, Emma, please!"
"Will you come to your husband's funeral, Mrs. Scarecrow?” she said.
Joseph and Rory squeezed past us and entered the cottage. I held my crutch in both hands to keep from shaking. “This is not a funeral,” I said. “It's an execution."
Emma turned to me. “Will you come?"
The two men carried my husband to the cart.
I nodded.
"Your shawl, Mrs. Scarecrow,” Emma said.
My voice shrilled. “No. You will leave without me."
"Mrs. Scarecrow—"
"You will! And then you will take him to the commons and burn him alive!"
Emma sneered. “Rory, fetch Mrs. Scarecrow's shawl."
I rode with Darrell in the back of the cart. I cradled his head in my lap, stroking the last of his hair, tucking loose wisps of straw into his limbs. My tears flowed unchecked, splashing onto his face, and I imagined him crying, too. I murmured to him, I sang to him, I straightened his shoulders to make him more comfortable. In my mind, I remembered him young, I remembered him old, and realized that young or old, I loved him.
The cart rattled to a halt. I peered through blurry eyes at the pyre adorned with the first spring flowers: milkmaids, blue-eyed grass, poppies, wild mustard. To the right, Rory set a torch to the bonfire. The scent of wood smoke stung my nostrils. I stroked my husband's hair. “No,” I whispered. “Not like that. Not you."
Three women crowded beside the cart. The first, Ger Malins’ wife, said, “Come, Mrs. Scarecrow, let us prepare the scarecrow."
I slapped her hands away and clutched at Darrell's chest. His upper body pulled away from his legs.
I screamed and drew back. The women took him then, lifting him by halves from the cart. Numbed, I watched them attach his legs to his waist, patting loose straw into place and folding under a frayed seam. The fire crackled behind them. Darrell's eyes gleamed in the firelight.
I lowered myself over the side of the cart. Joseph caught my arm before my lame leg folded beneath me. He handed me my crutch. I limped to the pyre and knelt, touching my husband's lips. I brushed at the corner of my eye with the back of my hand, then looked up at the three women. “Please,” I said, “let me keep this one."
Ger Malins’ wife knelt beside me. She touched Darrell's cheek. She looked up at someone standing behind me. “Why not?” she said. “What harm is there?"
Emma Grey stepped into view. “What harm?” she said. “How can we properly bless the fields? Is has always been like this. Ger, lay the pyre in the coals."
Ger shook his head. “Let her keep this one."
Thomas Halpern shoved his way between the women and the pyre. Three scars shone white along his upper lip. “Play the dirge, Martin,” he said, glaring at me, his eyes bright with triumph. “Let us lay this sorry bundle of scrap to rest."
He forced me aside, then hefted the pyre. Darrell fell into his arms. Legs spread wide, Thomas lifted my husband over his head.
I threw myself at Thomas Halpern's feet, clawing at his shins with my nails. He kicked himself free. He staggered, then dangled my husband over the flames.
"Darrell!” I shouted, wrapping myself around Thomas’ calf. “Dear God, as you love me! Darrell, save yourself!"
Thomas backhanded me across the temple. White light and a shower of sparks burned across my closed eyes. I held my breath, swaying to ease the pain. “Darrell!” I said again, his name a comfort. “Stop him!"
The air filled with the sound of crickets on a warm night. Shrill and frantic, their voices sought words. The sparks faded from my vision; I pressed my palms to my eyes. The crickets sang still louder. “Darrell will be coming soon,” I said. “Young and strong as spring. He will come home."
The crickets chorused at a fever pitch. “Stop them!” they said. “They will cast each other into the fire!"
I opened my eyes, blinking to focus on the confusion around me. Surrounded by a half-circle of people, two men grappled before the bonfire, arms locked around each other's shoulders. The blond man stomped at his foe's instep. The dark-haired man pulled away only to be reeled once more into the blond's embrace. They staggered nearer the flames.
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bsp; Ger and Rory broke through the half-circle and snatched at the men. Ger held the blond, pinning his arms to his sides. “Thomas!” Ger said. “Stop or you'll both be killed!"
With a wrench, Thomas tried to break free. Ger held him fast. Thomas glowered at the dark-haired man, then paled, his eyes widening. “What is this?” Thomas said. “Who are you? Where is the scarecrow?"
Darrell took a step back. Again my husband of the late spring, he felt along his arms, squeezing and pinching, a grateful smile flitting across his face. The crowd whispered and hummed. I laughed, giddy with wonder and grasped the skirt of the woman next to me. “Darrell!” I said, holding my arms out to him. “Come home with me!"
He stepped toward me. Then someone seized his arms.
Gaunt and tall, the young man wore clothes very like Darrell's. He looked at me. His callow, indistinct features contrasted with the definition of his red mouth. A lock of brown hair hung over one eye. He combed the lock aside with his fingers. One eye was clouded and blind, the other blue.
The new scarecrow turned to Darrell. “You have seen your seasons,” he said. “This year is mine."
Darrell withered before my eyes. His shoulders stooped and his head bent, the skin sagged from his weary frame. His hair thinned, sloughing from his scalp. The new scarecrow offered his arm and Darrell took it. Together they walked toward the bonfire.
I took a step and fell. Emma caught me and held me. I shivered, my teeth chattering. “Not—not like this,” I stammered. “Not like this."
Emma prayed. “God help us,” she said. “Please."
Darrell looked over his shoulder at me. “What do you want, Chloe?” he asked.
The new scarecrow jerked to face me. Uncertainty dimmed his good eye. Empathy kindled in me: we were both crippled, both young, both frightened. His boyish features radiated promises of strength and passion while Darrell's worn visage offered quiet and decline.
But Darrell's brown eyes held depths of affection. How long would he live? I wondered. A few months, a few weeks, a few days? The new scarecrow promised a year. Like real men, Darrell could make no promises.
I bit my lip. And what of the fields? Without the scarecrow, they would be barren, and without the scarecrow's wife, so would the women. But why couldn't the village pick a new bride each year to make and marry the scarecrow?
I imagined the new scarecrow's embrace, his arms firm and well-muscled, as each new scarecrow's arms would be; as it always had been. The new scarecrow stepped toward me. “You have given me your blood,” he said. “Your promise."
I lifted my chin. “But I have given Darrell my heart."
The new scarecrow collapsed, a man of rag and straw. Its head rested on the edge of the coals. Darrell knelt. He pulled the scarecrow from the fire. As he extinguished the sparks along the straw man's crown, Darrell grew younger until he was again my husband of the late spring. He rose and came to me. Blood oozed from a scratch on his hand.
Emma released me. Darrell lifted me to my feet. “Chloe,” he said, and only that.
I kissed his neck. Arm in arm, we walked past the stunned, silent people. No one stopped us as we left the village to follow the road through the spring fields.
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Tyka Tyka Tock
-or-
Stuff that Spins
One of these days I will make you a piece of toast and you will leave it sitting on your breakfast plate as you sip a café-au-lait. Eventually you'll decide you don't want it and flip that sucker toward the waste basket. Like a Las Vegas playing card to a gambler's hand, it will fly straight and true. Everyone knows that spinning up flat things will make them fly straight and true. Even my dog Jojo, who snaps the toast out of the air, can anticipate the trajectory of spinning bread. Good girl, Jojo; no crumbs, ok?
Most everything has spin. Atomic particles have spin, a.k.a. angular momentum, associated with them. On larger scales, not only do planets, wagon hubs, or diaphanously-clothed ice skaters have spin, but so do the great clusters of stars or even superclusters of galaxies bound together by gravity—fire in the heavens wheeling through the aether in a cosmic dance about a center, as if trying to choose whether to fall in or fly away.
Spin and motion and cyclic behavior are present in all systems. There is no such thing as motionlessness—not in this universe anyway. And there are motions within motions, embedded like kinetic Russian dolls to be illuminated only through different points of reference. Observation of the world around us reveals motion manifested over millennia and speedy little systems that start and stop in moments, supra-galactic structures to children's toys.
Get yourself a dreidel (or make one out of clay). With a little practice you can get it to spin off a snap from your thumb and forefinger, to whirr across your tabletop. At first it will stand straight, albeit with a slight wobble. This wobble is called precession, a circular motion of an object's axis of spin or change in its axis of rotation. Now we both know your dreidel will wobble, the frustration comes when we cannot predict with any certainty whether it will fall to Nun (nothing) or Gimmel (everything). But stochastic patterns associated with falling dreidels is a different column.
Larger-scale effects of spin can affect every living creature on the planet Earth. Like a cosmic dreidel, every 23,000 years the Earth's axis follows a precession, carrying the spin through a cycle that changes the relative orientation of our planet to the Sun. Ice ages rise and fall with the relative positions and orientations of the Sun and Gaia, and although there are several cyclic processes involved, spin is an important one.
Global climatic changes follow Milankovitch cycles, three of them, of which the earth's axial orientation is but one—complex dances of interrelated cycles that lift or plunge the planet through warm spells and ice ages. Aside from precession and its 23,000 year cycle as touched on above, there are changes in the Earth's axial tilt over 41,000 years and a pulsing change in the eccentricity of the Earth's orbit over 100,000 years. When these cycles fall into certain sync, get out your mittens, because ice is on the way.
Seasons are cyclic, of course: winter, spring, summer, fall or wet season, dry season. These round-and-round weather patterns are dictated by annual changes in orientation of Earth and Sun: abiotic patterns of cosmic circumstance and physics, driving along the migratory thunder of a million wildebeest, the nuptial flights of swarming termite queens or the return of songbirds with spring.
Cycles in biology are everywhere of course. Long- and short-term cycles of reproductive readiness or offspring care, complex life patterns of sexually and asexually reproducing populations of certain insects, patterns of menstruation self-synchronizing within small, close-knit groups of women. Cycles allow for renewal and replenishment, for rebuilding and starting over. Cycles are a tool of nature for protection and tracking and maximizing survival and reproduction. Cycles are simple. Cycles rule.
Cycles, spin, and the cousins of spin seem to hold a special position in nature's way of everything. Although not strictly a cycle, spirals exhibit the repetitive behavior of an active circle. Phi, the Golden Ratio, a proportion of 1 to 1.618, is buried within natural structures large and small. Manifestations of Phi have been considered aesthetically pleasing by artists and architects since classical times and designers and builders incorporated the ratio in to their artworks and architecture to make it more natural and pleasing to the eye.
However, not to be outdone, nature itself uses the ratio in its greatest constructs. Spiral seashells will show regular outward expansion of spiral according to the Golden Ratio, as will the curlicue tail of a house-hunting hermit crab. Not so surprising that the hermit crab must maintain an evolutio
nary fit with its potential home, but the house has followed a deeper rule that transcends biology.
Looking skyward yet again, we find the Golden Ratio deeply embedded in the development of things. The great spiral galaxies, with long tapering arms of stars and glowing dust, pull themselves about central supermassive black holes in spirals according to mysterious rules enraptured by Phi. Whether a mollusk stacking calcium carbonate molecules one atop the other, or a galaxy spinning up a colossal family of stars, something about the number seems to inspire nature—something as secret, profound, and mysterious as love.
A dog chases its tail in joy, a second hand sweeps through a relentless consumption of time, the Moon exposes a single face in a tide-locked ballet with the Earth, a baby twirls a plastic steering wheel with chubby hands. By now you know that everything has angular momentum, motion, and cyclic behavior. And like every cycle, you know I will make you toast again. Flip it. It's ok. Spinning keeps things true and tracked. In fact, just so you know, watching you sip your café-au-lait makes my head spin, and that's a good thing.
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The Case of the Detective's Smile by Mark Bourne
"The Case of the Detective's Smile” first appeared in Sherlock Holmes in Orbit, from DAW Books, 1995.
Author's Note: “'The Case of the Detective's Smile’ leaped up during a single overnight writing session at Clarion West ‘92. Kristine Kathryn Rusch suggested I send it to Mike Resnick for a collection of fantastical Sherlock Holmes he was putting together with Marty Greenberg, and soon enough it became my first anthology sale. I don't know if I found the story or it found me. Either way, the meeting of two of my favorite Victorians remains one of my more pleasurable writing experiences. (3:00 AM deliriums might have helped too, but hey.) It's still one of my personal faves, and of my stories so far it has proven the best suited for public readings."
