The Scarecrow's Revenge

A Tall Tale

Mitch took two halfhearted steps and Gramps shuffled behind him and pretended to spank his rear with the wool scarf that still drooped from his hand. The boy dashed off, a fury of giggles, until he circled back to taunt the old man again. They proceeded this way until Mitch dashed up the groaning porch stairs and through the door leaving the rocking chair creaking in his wake. 

Gramps started the kettle and took out two packets of instant cocoa. He smacked them against the edge of the linoleum counter top to gather the powder to one end. By the time the kettle screamed, Mitch was sitting at the table with a bag of miniature marshmallows on his lap. He dug his hand into the bag and shoved a fist full of them into his mouth. They poked from between his fingers and just as many popped onto the floor as settled on his tongue. 

"Jethy Jenkinsh," he said through the glob of masticated gelatin. 

"Yes, Jesse Jenkins," Gramps said. He dumped the cocoa packets into large white mugs and poured the kettle over the powder. The steam rose up and kissed his cheeks and forehead. "I'm gonna warn ya, this isn't really a story for children and I know Gram wouldn't approve me tellin' ya. So you gotta promise we keep it just between us. Don't go tellin' all the boys at school."

Mitch perked up in his chair. He held up his palm and said, "I promise."

"That's a good boy. Now, you also gotta promise that if you're feeling a bit too scared that you'll stop me telling you the tale. I couldn't live with myself if I was the cause of nightmares for you."

The light in Mitch's face faded and he frowned. "Is it really that scary," he asked, brown eyes locked on the linoleum tile between the wood table legs.

"For a boy your age it might be. So you gotta promise."

"I promise," he whispered and nodded his head.

"Alright then." Gramps pushed one of the mugs toward his grandson. "Be sure to blow on it," he said. He eased his rear into the chair across from the boy, settled into the seat with a sigh, and began:

"It was late August some say and others say late July. It was a year of horrible drought and nothing grew for no one without plenty of hard work and coaxing. The sky was heavy with the promise of rain and ribbons of clouds played along the horizon. Jesse Jenkins--he was about ten years old--lived on a farm up Highway 9 with his momma and daddy. It was the first season he was deemed old enough to help them work their land. It was bigger than ours by a long shot so there was always plenty to be doing. 

"He stood out there in the fields that late August or late July day. The heat was stifling so he went shirtless and his feet bare. Much of the crop didn't take so patches of empty space wrecked his already tentative sense of direction. 

"The fields were silent and still. There wasn't even a breeze. He couldn't hear nothing. Not the gurgling hum of his father running the irrigator. Couldn't hear his mother firing her shotgun or commanding their bloodhound to collect the pesky crows she picked off with shells full of rock salt. Nope, there was no noise but the humming of his mind.

"The crops were already taller than his ten year old figure but he could jump and see over 'em easy and he did so to get a look around. He saw a faint figure in the distance. Reckoned it was one of the hired hands and hoped he could tell the boy how to get out of the maze of crops.

"As he got closer the person came into focus. He approached in tender steps after realizing what he looked at. A straw man with a pumpkin head left out too long in the sun. Its arms were out at its sides and the gangly legs overlapped at the ankles. Its face had triangular black eyes and nose and a jagged black mouth like a jack-o-lantern.