The Last Scarecrow

30 | Dirty Dozen

The Patchwork Woman stood in the courtyard admiring Coldharbour Farm.

The grey sky shifted. Flecks of crystal-blue twisted through the bleakness. A gentle breeze scurried through the flagstones, blowing dried leaves and dirt towards the shore.

Erin walked up the hill, passing Twelve's cross, marvelling at the differences in the sky, and the wind in her wild hair. Part of her wondered if the world was changing again, fixing itself, or had it always been this way? Had she been away for so long that she'd merely forgotten?

"It's nice here," The Patchwork Woman said. "Homely. I'm going to like it."

"This is my home."

"And now it's ours."

Erin's hands balled into fists.

"So," The Patchwork Woman said. "Where do you make the scarecrows?"

Without saying a word, Erin led her to the barn.

The Patchwork Woman stalked back and forth looking at the sheets of metal, engine parts, nuts and bolts and crews, wooden struts and beams, clothing, saws and drills and mallets, and the items with disturbing faces marked on them.

She crossed her arms. "Is this all?" she said.

"Yes," Erin said, adjusting her glasses. "I can probably make ten scarecrows. A dozen at the most with the parts I have. Is that not enough?"

The Patchwork Woman moved closer. "Would you consider twelve scarecrows an army, little girl?"

"My Ma once told me: a person that fights for something they love is worth more than a hundred hired hands."

The Patchwork Woman snorted, pacing aggressively. Finally, she slowed, whipping her cloak tight around her slender body. "Can you make them love me?" she said, eyeing the hotchpotch, odds and ends, brick-a-brac collection of spare parts.

"Love you?"

"Yes, love me. I want to be adored!"

"Ye-es," Erin smiled slowly.

"Truly?"

"They will love you as only a child can love a mother."

The Patchwork Woman's shoulders widened, her head tilted high and proud. "You will be The Mother of Scarecrows."

"Yes," the woman hissed. "Yes, I will."

Erin bowed her head. "As you wish."

Snapping her fingers, The Patchwork Woman swept past Erin, heading towards the farmhouse. "Then let it begin!"

Erin spent her days and nights working tirelessly: bending, sawing, hammering, soldering.

Creating.

Making warriors for The Mother of Scarecrows was exhausting work. When sleep finally took her, Erin collapsed in the hayloft, twisting and turning in nightmares about the different ways The Patchwork Woman might remove the skin from her bones, the plight of Number Twelve, and the poor abandoned Socks on BootHill.

The barn had become Erin's home. A sanctuary away from The Patchwork Woman and the wickermen. They left her alone for the most part, going about their own busy routines, preparing Coldharbour Farm for whatever was to come.

The golems stood guard either side of the yawning barn door.

Erin had heard of golems before, but never imagined for one minute that she'd ever meet one. Again, her brother's dorky fascination with Dungeons & Dragons and Terry Pratchett's Discworld had paid dividends.