It was a blustery autumn day the year Mitch turned eight. He and Gramps went out back of their small ranch house to get air and let Mitch burn off steam in the empty cornfields. Gramps bundled the boy up in his heavy red coat and pushed on the hat and mittens Gram crocheted for him. Mitch thought they were itchy and hated the scarf most of all, the way it prickled his ears and chaffed his lips. He dashed through the door before Gramps could wrap it around his hood and cocoon his face in the rough spun wool.
Gramps paced after him and put a palm to his forehead. It was just the two of them now since their son and daughter-in-law gave Mitch up as a baby and Gram passed away in the spring. It was all Gramps could do not to drop dead himself constantly chasing after the boy. He was a good boy at heart but full of hot sauce. He never sat still, not even when he slept. He flopped and tossed through the night and Gramps often found him hanging halfway off his bed in the morning with the blankets and sheets strewn about in wrinkled mounds.
The cornfield was tiny--just two acres. The harvest a month back was easy and plentiful. They couldn't sell much of it and as a result had a lot for themselves to use in the cold months ahead. Plenty could be done with surplus corn. Boiling, popping, feeding the old brown milk cow and the potbelly sow.
Mitch ran himself in circles along the tufts of dried stalk that poked from the earth. Gramps stayed on the porch, rested himself in the wicker rocking chair, and swayed to and fro breathing in the crisp air that coated his nostrils and the back of his throat in cold. The chair had a gentle creak and groan that had the effect of a lullaby on Gramps' mind. He dozed off for who knows how long before a snore caught in his throat and jarred him awake.
"Mitch?" he hollered out to the boy. He eased himself out of the porch rocking chair. His body wasn't nearly as spry as it used to be and every joint was tight with arthritis. He'd never gotten used to the slow pace his old bones dictated and often reminded himself to take it easy.
Gramps hobbled into the field. The trees showed their rough twisted skeletons and the parched earth was beige with random patches of grass grasping color from the ever-shortening rays of sun. He caught sight of Mitch's red coat, the only bright color against the desaturated autumnal landscape. The boy dropped his hood and the wind whipped his black hair. His mittens hung limp from strings at the cuffs of his jacket, dangling against the gusts. He stooped to pick up a dirt clod, cranked his arm back, and beaned the old scarecrow Gramps had been meaning to dispose of for weeks.
"Now, now, boy. Don't you go'n anger that straw man. He'll likely spite you as quick as look at you," Gramps said in his most stern tone. "You don't want to end up like poor Jesse Jenkins, do you?"
The boy stood with another dirt clod poised to launch and looked up at his grandfather. He cocked his head to one side and said, "Who's that?" Warm breath puffed from his mouth, quickly condensed, and vanished into the atmosphere.
"You know that bog down Highway 9?" Gramps asked. "Did you ever get to wonder how a swamp turned up in the middle of prairie land?"
Mitch looked up at him. His tight lips indicated he pondered the question with serious consideration and the furrow of his eyebrows showed the whole thing confused the boy.
"Why don't we go inside and sip some hot cocoa and I'll tell you all about it."
The boy stomped a foot in protest.
"Now now, do as your Gramps tells you. That wind is picking up and don't like the look of those clouds over there." The old man pointed up over the boy's head to the west. A line of tumbling storm clouds crept along the gray sky.
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.
"The pumpkin had begun to desiccate--that means dry out--and so the skin was wrinkled and the features curved inward like the face of a tired old man. Not unlike mine. Straw stuck out in all directions from behind its tattered shirt and raggedy overalls.
"It was hooked up on a cross made of two tar stained railroad ties. The heat of the day warmed the old wood and a faint sour burning smell lingered. Somebody'd left a pitchfork there. The handle leaned up against the straw man's post. Jesse stood there thinking about what to do next. He decided to talk to the straw man because when he was nervous or in a dark place like the basement crawlspace, he talked aloud so as not to be so scared.
"'Pardon me, do you know the way back to the barn?' he asked it and giggled a bit because he thought it was silly to be talking to an object, even if it did resemble a man.
"The straw man didn't answer, of course, and he was old enough by then to know such things were nonsense anyway. But then the pumpkin head creaked down until the hollow face stared at him straight on. He heard a voice but the thing's mouth didn't move. It was just an echo spreading over the field with each word.
"'Do--I--know--the--way?'
"Jesse rubbed his ears. 'Did you say that?' he asked, getting more and more scared by the second.
"'I--know--a--tree--that--swallows--thee.' The voice said. Behind--the--lined--and--intertwined.'
"'What are you talking about?' Jesse asked. By now he was so terrified he reached over and picked up that pitchfork what was leaning there and gripped it tight.
"'I--know--a--tree--that--swallows--thee--behind--the--lined--and--intertwined,' the voice said again. And said it again and again until Jesse trembled and had tears running down his face.
"With a sudden surge of courage he raised that pitchfork and jabbed its metal tines all the way into the straw man's belly. The voice screeched, high and piercing, so that Jesse dropped the pitchfork and covered up his ears with this palms. The sky churned faster, unnatural like, but still no wind. Then suddenly the screeching stopped.
"A tiny brown thing fell from inside the scarecrow, then another, and then a long, ropy, wriggling one. It was toads and a snake. Then grasshoppers and cicadas and moths and crows and rats and worms and more toads and lizards and caterpillars and roaches and ants and fireflies and horseflies and hornets and dragonflies come out from the straw man in waves. They poured out just like water from a pitcher.
"Something bright pushed its way to the top. It was a beautiful red frog no larger than the palm of Jesse's hand with black and white patterns on its back that looked like butterfly wings. It seemed to glow, its red color pulsing in the air around it. It was so pretty that the boy forgot he was scared. He wanted to keep it as a pet. He cupped the little frog in the cave between his palms and ran off the way he came.
"He pounded his feet against the cracked soil weaving between patches of dried corn. The brittle stalks lunged at him and scratched his face. Then a stalk bent across his path to trip him and he fell. The whole right side of him slid across the earth sending up so much dust he choked on it. He didn't want to let the frog go so he struggled to his feet without using his hands.
"Through the dust he could make out a tall white framework covered in dried tangles of thorny vine and leaf. He knew where he was now, a clearing at the side of the cornrows just yards from the barn where his momma grew rambling roses. He stuffed the frog in his jeans pocket and climbed the framework until a thick barky branch poked his way from behind the settling dust. Jesse grabbed the branch with both hands and pulled himself up onto it. He was sittin' up a massive oak tree on the lowest branch.
"He could make out the faded red side of the barn through the dust and swarms of insects that flew into his face and chest. They buzzed so loud and irritating that Jesse wanted to scream but instead he shut his mouth and eyes tight to keep the bugs out. Then the top of the old oak trunk began to twist and spread open like flower petals. All the branches shook and loosed their leaves. Inside the trunk was a black pit and Jesse saw no bottom. The branch he rested on tipped up and he and the frog slid down into the darkness of the opened trunk and were never seen again.
"All them bugs buzzing in the sky and critters crawling about scurried over the whole farm eatin' up everything, devouring the crops and livestock alike, until there weren't nothing left but mud and bones. And then they ate all that up too. With nothing else left, all them critters ate up each other. Then the rains finally came and the cursed land they left behind wouldn't grow a thing. It just filled up with water and reeds and sickly trees. Nothing will ever go close to that pitiful stench but snakes.
"And that, my young friend, is why you never cross a straw man. They're likely to release a plague so horrible nothing can escape it."
Mitch's mouth hung open and he didn't stir. Gramps watched him. "Well. What did you think of the story," he asked. Tears welled up in the boy's eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
"Aw, my boy," Gramps reached out his arms and Mitch abandoned his chair for a bear hug. "You promised to stop me if you was scared."
Mitch sniffled. "I know. I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't you worry now. It's not real. Just a tall tale is all. Now finish up your cocoa and we'll watch some cartoons."
The next day was sunny and crisp. The fresh air licked the back of Gramps' throat as he huffed into the field to remove the old scarecrow. He yanked its post out of the earth, rested it on his shoulder, and trekked around the back of the house to the barn where the old milk cow slept.
Gramps dumped the scarecrow next to the barn atop a pile of scrap wood, twigs, and other yard waste. It was weatherworn and ragged from sitting out in the cornrows for a full season. The primitive eyes and smile he had painted on its burlap face were sun bleached and the whole thing smelled musty and dank.
"There, you can't set revenge on no one now," he chuckled and went off to make sandwiches for he and Mitch's lunch.
As he walked away, the chest of the scarecrow pulsed and wriggled. Out from under the rain stained cotton shirt emerged a tiny red frog with black and white patterns on its back. It blinked its bulged round eyes and snapped its tongue at a neighboring pill bug. Its skin radiated red light. It hopped down the waste pile and croaked before squirming through a hole between the boards where the side of the barn met the earth.
(If you like what you read, please click the "star" to vote.)