by Mark Stay
Suky, for her part, was trying to piece together the flashes of memory that kept coming to her. Susannah Gabriel. That had been her name. That had been her life before. No, it couldn’t be possible. She was Suky, here and now. There was no before. Susannah was a lie. The villagers were afraid of them and told lies to spread their fear, Pumpkinhead had warned her. Yes, that must be it.
‘How long we gonna be here, eh?’ Terrence asked. ‘I don’t mind telling you my backside is a bit moist, and I don’t much fancy another case of the old Chalfont Saint Giles. Anyone got a cushion?’
‘Speak not in riddles, man.’ Pumpkinhead threw his hands in the air.
‘Piles,’ Suky said without thinking. ‘It’s rhyming slang. Chalfont Saint Giles. Piles.’ How did she know? One of Susannah’s memories? She shook the thought from her head, took the crook of Pumpkinhead’s arm and led him away to the abbey’s stone steps. ‘Why did we take him, my Pumpkinhead?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t we just scarper from this place? We’ve made the villagers angry and they’ll come after us with flames and blades and worse.’
‘On the contrary, sister Suky,’ Pumpkinhead said, his voice calming after the strain of yelling at Terrence. ‘They’re scared now. They fear us and they will bring us the book and then we will use it and we will have our home.’
‘We won’t do him no harm, will we?’
‘A cushion. A cushion. My kingdom for a cushion.’ Terrence cackled, causing Pumpkinhead to glance back at him.
‘I will if he doesn’t shut up,’ the scarecrow muttered.
‘Please don’t.’
‘I jest, my sister. I promise. No harm will come to him. This will all be over soon.’
‘Good, good,’ Suky said, then hesitated. ‘I must ask, though, and forgive my impertinence… Was she…? Was she right about me?’
‘The girl at the fire?’
‘She said my name was Susannah. And she’s stirred up all sorts of strange thoughts in my head, and I’m wondering who I rightly am, and—’
‘Hush, sister Suky.’ Pumpkinhead took her hand in his. ‘She spoke lies designed to befuddle and divide us. Here, let me show you.’ He turned to the other crow folk and raised his arms. He didn’t even need to speak. They leapt to their feet, ready for action, eager to please. ‘Brothers and sisters, come closer, heed me, yes.’ He stood behind Suky, hands resting on her shoulders. ‘Tell me, brothers and sisters. Who stands before you here?’
‘Our sister Suky,’ one cried.
‘The bravest and wisest of us all,’ said another.
‘And fair and graceful.’
‘His lips are moving,’ said Terrence.
Suky felt Pumpkinhead’s fingers tense on her shoulders.
‘That’s very clever, though,’ Terrence said. ‘What is that? Ventriloquism? Or did you all rehearse this earlier? Either way, marvellous. Well done, everyone. Y’know, a few of us thought you was some sort of travelling circus when you first turned up, and you can see why, can’t you, eh? Triffic, really triffic.’
As the old man continued to waffle, Suky felt a stirring inside her. A muddle of shame and hurt. Pumpkinhead relaxed his grip on her shoulders. ‘Look at me, sister Suky.’
She turned, finding herself staring up into his hollow triangle eyes.
‘You know I only want the best for all of you, don’t you? I would not hurt you, or put you in any kind of danger. You understand, don’t you, sister?’
‘Yes, my Pumpkinhead,’ Suky said, though the words came without thought or passion. She just said them because she knew that was what he wanted to hear. Another thought came to her, one that had been niggling her for some time. ‘I have a question, though.’
‘Ask it and I shall answer,’ Pumpkinhead replied.
‘You are very powerful, my Pumpkinhead, we’ve all seen that. You stopped that fire with a clap of your hands.’
‘I did.’
‘And then you made it start again.’
‘Yes, yes.’
He snapped this last and Suky could tell he was getting impatient. ‘So, my question is this, and bear in mind this has been swirling around in my head for some time—’
‘Suky. Ask your question.’
‘If you are so powerful that you can start and stop a fire with just a clap of your hands,’ Suky said, her words tumbling out, ‘why did you let our jolly brother burn?’
The world fell silent. The wind dropped to nothing, the crow folk leaned forward to hear the answer and even Terrence shut up.
‘Craddock set him alight,’ Suky continued, hearing the shiver in her own voice, ‘and you could’ve stopped him burning. So why didn’t you?’
Pumpkinhead lowered his gaze. ‘Oh, Suky, my sister. You break my heart. You think me all-powerful, like the gods of old. I speak plainly when I say that I am nothing without my brothers and sisters.’ He stretched his arms out to the crow folk. A few reached back. ‘I am nothing without you, Suky.’ He took her hand, turning it over, squeezing it, patting it. ‘Not a day goes by when I do not weep for our fallen brother. Would that I had the power to save him, to resurrect him, even. Oh, Suky, I was so weak then, but with all of you here I am strong. We are strong.’ He raised a fist skywards, and all the crow folk – save Suky – joined him with a cheer.
‘That’s all well and good,’ Suky said, ‘but you haven’t really answered my—’
‘Do you trust me, Suky?’
Suky looked from Pumpkinhead to Terrence and to her straw siblings. ‘I suppose I must,’ she said.
‘Good, good, my sister, because without trust we have—’ He tensed again and his head snapped around as if he had heard something.
‘What is it?’ Suky asked.
‘Someone is calling to me,’ he said. ‘Someone is using magic. Brothers and sisters. Our time has come.’
31 A THIN BLACK LINE
Faye struck a match and lit a candle. She stood behind Charlotte’s line of black salt at the crossroads by the old Roman bridge. As the burning tang of phosphorous reached her nose, Faye shook the match out, tossed it away and glanced back down the winding road to the village. The only route from the abbey to Woodville.
Faye had cycled here at speed to get a head start in case Charlotte and Mrs Teach chased after her. She had quickly stopped off at the pub to grab the candle and matches. She was tired, hot and whiffy with mayflies in her hair and greenflies on her dungarees, and she spat midgies from her lips.
The Woodville she had pedalled through was a ghost town. It was after midnight. The pubs were closed, shops and houses and cottages locked and bolted. Windows and doors were blacked out, though there was no ARP patrol tonight. Bertie was right. After the barn fire and her father’s abduction, everyone had gone home and put on their kettles and wirelesses in the hope it would all blow over by tomorrow.
Faye was on a mission to make those hopes come true.
The moon was high, shrouded in cloud. There was a hint of salty sea air on the breeze. A storm was approaching from the coast. She had to be quick. Faye turned, the book at her feet, as she offered the candle to the north. ‘Protect with light that is pure and true, protect my home the whole day through.’
The east. ‘Protect with light that is pure and true, protect my home the whole day through.’
The south. ‘Protect with light that is pure and true, protect my home the whole day through.’
The west. ‘Protect with light that is pure and true, protect my home the whole day through.’
If using magic was like a flame to a moth, then she would bring the crow folk to her now with this basic protection chant she had found in the book. She wanted something she could do quickly and without any fuss. Simple candle magic.
She turned to the north again. ‘Protect with light that is pure and true…’
Shadows moved in the wood. Voices chuckled and hooted as crow folk dashed between the trees, their clumsy feet swishing through the ferns, shaking them like waving arms.
‘Protect my home the w
hole day through.’ Faye finished and blew out her candle. ‘So mote it be.’
‘What’s this?’ The voice came from the edge of Faye’s sight and made her shoulder blades twitch.
As she placed the candle on the ground, Pumpkinhead stalked in from the shadows of the wood. He stayed on the other side of the protective line of black salt. Faye kept her hands on her satchel, watching as his empty triangle eyes narrowed and his zigzag mouth formed a grin. Every move brought with it a creak from his shiny orange skin. Faye had never been this close to him before and her fear stirred up a simmering rage. She wanted to strike out from behind the protective line and smash his squashy head in. Faye wondered if this was how Bertie and the other villagers felt about her now. If they believed the rumours of her putting curses on the likes of Milly Baxter and consorting with witches. She took a calming breath, wondering what Charlotte or Mrs Teach might do. Faye tried to be aloof. She found herself distracted, wondering if she should take up smoking a pipe. When he spoke again, the chills returned.
‘Black salt, if I’m not mistaken.’ He nudged a boot close to the line and Faye’s heart began to race. The tip of his boot crossed over the line of ash and began to smoulder as Charlotte’s protective magic did its work. White smoke swirled up from his toes as he began to burn. He drew his foot back.
‘You think that will protect you from me?’
‘I reckon it might,’ Faye said, keeping her voice steady though her mouth was dry and the breeze was picking up. The storm would be here soon. ‘Your name is Kefapepo, right?’
Pumpkinhead inclined his head, almost impressed. ‘And where did you hear my name, young lady? I’m sure they don’t teach that in your churches or schools.’
‘I read it in a book,’ she said.
‘The book you will now give to me.’
‘My dad. Where is he?’
More crow folk began to emerge from the wood behind Pumpkinhead, treading lightly on tiptoes as if this was a playground game.
‘Give me that.’ Pumpkinhead gestured to the book at Faye’s feet. ‘And you shall have him.’
‘Show him to me.’
‘The book first.’
‘My dad first.’
‘The book.’
‘My dad.’
‘The book.’
‘My dad.’
‘The book.’
‘My dad.’
‘The book!’
‘My dad! I can do this all night, chum.’
‘I’m sure you can.’ Pumpkinhead’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘You think your bravado hides your fear. That’s what my kind feed on, girl. Your dread, your rage, your violence. It’s like nectar to us, and you humans provide a never-ending supply. And once again you wage war and I am thrilled. This will be a feast. Your vile, petty disputes will nourish us and allow us to return to our rightful place up here, to rule in pandemonium.’
‘Sorry, what was that?’ Faye said, inspecting her nails. ‘I weren’t listening.’
‘So childish.’
‘Says the man with the pumpkin for a noggin. Show me my blinkin’ dad.’
Pumpkinhead nodded and beckoned to the wood behind him. Two figures came through the maze of trees. Suky, holding Terrence’s hand and swinging it like a child going for a walk, led him out onto the crossroads.
‘Hello, Faye,’ Terrence chirped. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
He looked chipper, if a little tired, but Faye’s dad was always chipper. Faye was sure her dad could be in a room with that Mr Hitler and convince him to give up on this whole war kerfuffle and go back to painting watercolours.
‘Are you all right, Dad?’
‘Mustn’t grumble,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Bum’s a bit damp and I could murder a cuppa, but can’t complain otherwise.’
‘The book.’ Pumpkinhead extended his hand.
‘Let my dad go, promise to bugger off, never to be seen again, and I’ll leave the book here. How about that?’ Faye raised her chin.
‘I don’t think so.’ Pumpkinhead slowly paced up and down. It reminded Faye of the time she had gone with her dad to London Zoo and watched the lions do the same. Looking at her like a snack that was just out of reach.
‘You can’t touch me. You cannot cross this here line.’ Faye remained still, keeping one eye on the book at her feet.
‘Indeed,’ Pumpkinhead said. There came a distant crackle of thunder and the breeze picked up. ‘But I am very, very patient.’
Faye’s nose was cold, her lips chapped, and the air was chill. Somewhere in the brambles a mouse scuttled away to take cover.
‘Is that your mother’s book?’ Terrence asked, craning his neck for a better look at the leather-bound tome at Faye’s feet.
‘Sorry, Dad. I put it away like I promised, honest I did. I was never going to look at it again, but… needs must when the Devil drives.’
‘You’re giving it to him?’ Terrence shook his head. ‘No, you can’t.’
‘I have to, Dad. It’s the only way.’
Terrence narrowed his eyes, focusing on the book at Faye’s feet. There was a glimmer of something, if not recognition. ‘Oh no, wait, that’s not—’
‘Please, for once in your life, Dad, be quiet and leave this to me.’
‘Yes. Be quiet.’ Pumpkinhead reached out with a gloved hand, grabbed Terrence and yanked him close, whispering in his ear. Old words. Forbidden words. Words of power. Words of pain.
Faye watched helplessly as her father convulsed and cried in agony, his eyes rolled back and his knees buckled. He fell to the floor, his arms and legs twitching.
‘Leave him alone!’ Faye yelled, fighting every instinct to cross the line.
‘Give me the book.’
‘No, my Pumpkinhead, no. We said no hurting—’ Suky rushed forwards, but Pumpkinhead swung his arm around and slapped her face with the back of his hand. Suky staggered away in shock.
‘Do not interfere.’ Pumpkinhead gripped Terrence’s skull and once more spat words into his ear. Faye closed her eyes tight and clapped her hands over her ears to block out her father’s screams.
‘Give me the book,’ Pumpkinhead said, ‘or your father becomes one of us.’
‘Stop. Yes. You can have it. I’ll give you the book.’
Pumpkinhead released his hold on Terrence, who fell forward, muttering, ‘Faye, no, that’s not—’
‘Dad, will you be quiet.’
‘But, Faye—’
‘Dad, shut up.’
‘No tricks,’ Pumpkinhead said, reaching out for it.
‘Back off,’ Faye ordered, picking up the book and clutching it to her chest. ‘Go on, back off and you shall have it.’
Pumpkinhead whispered words into Terrence’s ears once more and the old man’s eyes widened with the shock of the pain.
Faye felt a cold drop of rain on her cheek, followed by another and another. She glanced down to see fat spots of the stuff pitter-pattering on the road. On the black salt.
‘Oh no.’
The storm arrived, the downpour hissing through the leaves and splashing around them. The black salt began to blur. Faye looked up to find Pumpkinhead grinning. The rain was lashing down and the protective line of black salt would be washed away in moments.
Faye looked up into Pumpkinhead’s triangle eyes. ‘You want this book, you big orange-faced wazzock? You can have it.’ Faye spun like a shot-putter and tossed the book into the darkness of the wood.
Pumpkinhead dashed after it. ‘Find it, brothers and sisters. Find it and bring it to me now!’
Faye rushed to her father who was curled into a ball on the ground. ‘Dad. Up on the bicycle now.’ She hefted him to his feet and the two of them stumbled over to where her bicycle lay on the ground. She hauled it upright as he struggled to get a leg over the saddle. ‘Come on, Dad. Budge up and hold on,’ she said, squeezing herself between him and the handlebars and pushing away before starting to pedal down the road to the village. Her dad might look rake-thin, but the extra
weight meant it took her twice as long to get moving. ‘Help me, Dad. Push.’
Terrence looked back at the wood where the crow folk were rummaging in the long grass for the book. ‘Faye, I was trying to tell you – that’s not your mother’s book.’
‘I know, Dad, I know. And we have about ten seconds before old pumpkin-bonce figures that out. Let’s go!’
32 THE GOD OF SCARECROWS
‘Master. I have found it, I have it.’ Lightning pulsed silently in the clouds above as the scarecrow with the smiling clown face scurried over to Pumpkinhead. Clown-face was holding the thick, leather-bound book aloft like a raggedy Moses descending from Mount Sinai.
‘Well done, brother, give it to me.’ Pumpkinhead snatched the book and began fumbling through the pages with his gloved hands.
Suky stood apart from the others, watching from the crossroads as rain pelted down and thunder rolled overhead. She knew she should be feeling the cold and the wet, but her only sensation was the shame in her belly.
Her beloved Pumpkinhead had struck her across the face and turned away. Even his name was false. What had the girl with the specs called him? Kefapepo? All of his words were lies. She knew that now. And she knew she did not belong here.
‘No. No.’ Pumpkinhead raged as the wind began to whip over page after page of the book. The other scarecrows crowded around him. Suky shuffled forwards and craned her head for a better look. It was a book of old wood carvings. Pictures. Few words. ‘This is not it. This is not the book. You fool, this is not the book. This is not the book!’ He slapped the book shut, gripped it with both hands and began to beat the smiling clown over the head with it. ‘She lied. She lied to us.’ Some of the crow folk laughed and clapped and pointed, others backed away in fear as lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.
Suky winced at the memory of beatings from her father when she had been naughty. She had learned to curl up, cover her head and tell herself it would be over soon. Later, they would all sit for supper and smile as if nothing had happened. Suky always joined in with the lie, but she wanted nothing more than to escape, walk out and get lost and never come back. That was another life. The life that kept insisting it was real. The life of Susannah Gabriel.