Aeon Ten

by Aeon Authors

  Darrell propped himself on one elbow and gazed down at me. He sketched a line with his finger from my chin to my throat. Sadness softened his eyes. “You don't believe in me, do you?” he said.

  Confused and guilty, I clasped his hand, twining his fingers. “Darrell—"

  "Hush,” he said. “Say nothing."

  He kissed me, pulling me close. He tasted of salt.

  * * * *

  "A lovely day for a wedding,” Emma said, sipping her ale. “And a lovely evening for a dance."

  The couples laughed and swayed on the commons before us, the bride and groom leading the chain of dancers through a reel. I twisted my hands. I had fulfilled my duty, I had witnessed the vows; now I wanted to go home. Beyond the village, beneath the full moon, Darrell waited in the late summer fields. Waited, and no doubt wondered where I was. Until Joseph and Thomas had tapped at my door, I had forgotten about the wedding.

  Emma smirked. “Thinking of your own husband, Chloe Scarecrow?"

  I resisted glaring at her. I leaned over and reached for my glass of ale.

  "How lucky you are,” Emma said. “The rest of us can only hope to marry once, but like Mollie you can look forward to a new husband every year."

  I straightened, leaving the ale untouched. “Did Mollie Scarecrow know her husbands’ names?"

  "Did she name them?” Emma said. “Not that I ever heard. But then, she had so many."

  With a rustle of skirts, Nora Halpern sat beside me. Her cheeks flushed with anger, she chipped at the leg of the chair with her fingernails. Thomas stalked toward us, weaving between the dancers, until Nora turned her back on him. He stopped, his hands brushing tight circles along his thighs. The dancers shuffled in front of him, hiding him from view.

  "I caught him with the Morris girl,” Nora said. “He had a hand on her arm. Only a matter of time before it roved elsewhere."

  "You see how lucky you are, Chloe Scarecrow,” Emma said. “No one will ever tire of you."

  Nora's nostrils flared. “He never tired—” she said, then bowed her head. Tears caught in her lashes.

  * * * *

  Thomas and Joseph drove me back to the cottage. All the way home, Joseph hummed a phrase of melody, singing a word or two whenever Thomas growled at him. I sat between them, hugging my crutch to my breast, afraid to speak. They reeked of soured ale, and, between Thomas’ black mood and Joseph's flippant gaiety, I trusted neither of them.

  Joseph reined in at my gate and stretched his legs. “Well, Mrs. Scarecrow,” he said, “half a minute and I'll give you a hand—"

  "I'll see her to the door,” Thomas said. His voice could have pierced steel.

  Joseph wrapped the reins around his fist. He nodded.

  Thomas hopped from the cart, raising a clap of dust. He pulled me roughly from the seat and dragged me to the door. Squeezed between the doorframe and his chest, I held my crutch between us like a crucifix. He leaned forward to kiss me. I pushed him away. My good knee buckled and I pitched forward into his arms. He grasped me by my shoulders, his fingers digging into my flesh as if drilling for bone.

  "Listen, Mrs. Scarecrow,” he said between gritted teeth, “you must be a saint or a whore to live so far from the village and not go mad. We both know you are no saint."

  I tried to wrench myself free but he held me fast. “Joseph!” I shouted. “Joseph Dunne!"

  Thomas drew back his hand and hit me. I raked my nails across his upper lip, catching his nose. He stumbled back. With the doorframe to bolster me, I swung my crutch in his face. “I will do worse! Then how will you explain yourself to Nora?"

  He wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. “Whore,” he said. He stormed away.

  I let myself into the cottage and leaned against the door. I listened: Thomas growled at Joseph while Joseph hummed his bit of tune. The horses’ hooves receded into the distance. Slowly, the crickets’ voices rose in song. I hobbled from the door, shaken and enraged, then sank into a chair. The crutch trembled in my hands. I set it aside.

  The door opened and Darrell entered. Even by moonlight, I could see the angry set of his brow. He shut the door behind him. He stood in the center of the room, his arms folded across his chest, his head tilted back. Comforted by his anger, I forced a smile. “You needn't worry,” I said. “I'm fine."

  "Are you?” he said sharply.

  "He did not hurt me."

  "'He?'” my husband said. “Oh, ‘he,’ is it? So that is where you've been."

  I gaped at him. “It is not. I've been to a wedding."

  "To a wedding.” He nodded. “Ah! To seek someone else?"

  "Darrell—"

  "Someone who doesn't need mending?"

  "I mend you because I want to—"

  "You mend me because they expect it!” He grasped me by the shoulders, his fingers digging into my flesh.

  I kicked at him with my good leg, my foot scraping his shin. We tumbled to the floor in a heap. My elbow smacked the hearthstones.

  Darrell groped for me. “Chloe, are you all right?"

  I cradled my throbbing elbow and curled out of reach. “Get away from me! I never want to see you, any of you, ever again! Nora is right, you're all the same! Go away!"

  "Chloe—"

  "Go away!” I shrieked. I felt along the floor for something to throw at him, but found nothing. The door opened and shut. Between sobs when I gasped for breath, I could hear the crickets singing to the full moon.

  * * * *

  The first night, I locked my door with a chair. He did not try the knob; that hurt a little. The second night, I set the chair in front of the door. The third night, I left the chair by the hearth.

  During the day, I ignored him, keeping my back to him while I worked the garden. The people who passed the cottage on their way to and from the field barely nodded to me. A few stared, squinted at me and pursed their lips. Only Joseph Dunne stopped to talk. I finally asked him, “Joseph, what have I done that everyone is so cold?"

  He gazed into the clouds, shading his eyes with his hand. “Those scratches on Thomas Halpern's face,” he said. “He told everyone you clawed him because he wouldn't bed you."

  My stomach knotted. “It's a lie! Joseph, I called out to you—"

  "They don't believe me. Thomas claims I was drunk."

  That night I locked the door with the chair again.

  * * * *

  The summer sky, an angry gray, pressed down on the fields next morning. The wind rippled through the corn, spinning free the loose leaves and stirring the dust. “Rain by evening,” I said to myself.

  People passed the cottage on their way to the fields. Two men stopped at the foot of the pole and gazed up at the scarecrow. I turned away, until one of them laughed. I peered over my shoulder. One of the men stretched to tug the lapels of my husband's blue jacket, then hopped a little and tossed something at his cap. I groped for my crutch and struggled to my feet, but the men had already loped away.

  Lightning split the sky, followed by a sudden rain. The lashing torrent drove people from the fields. I retreated to the cottage and brewed a cup of tea. Through the window, I watched the rain pummel the earth, then subside. A threatening stillness followed; the clouds massed tighter and darker. The storm waited, gathering strength.

  I glanced at my husband. Let him drown, I thought, then pushed the tea cup aside and leaned toward the window. A fox, stealing through the corn, passed my husband, then circled back to crouch at the foot of the pole. It leapt at him, clawing his legs and ribs in an attempt to gain purchase. It fell, then leapt again. It tore at his jacket before it scrabbled backward and dropped to the earth. It ran. My husband teetered from the pole at an angle.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. I grabbed the mending basket and hurried to the field. I hopped more than ran, my lame leg trailing as my crutch sank in the mud. I skidded on the straw at my husband's feet and looked up. One leg hung in tatters while the left shoulder of his coat flapped open, exposing the lining. I set the
basket down and balanced on my good leg. With my hands on my husband's hips, I steadied myself. A lump formed in my throat.

  "If I pull you down, I might well pull you apart,” I said. “Darrell, you must help me."

  A wind whipped my hair into my eyes and I let go of him. I shook my head, combing at my hair until I could see. My husband slumped at the foot of the pole, his button eyes beaded with rain. On his cap rested a handful of cherries. I looked again at the rent in his jacket. A smear of red juice outlined its tattered edge. Seething, I snatched at my basket and sat beside my husband. “Fools,” I muttered, brushing the cherries away. “Idiots and fools."

  Only a little straw nested in the bottom of the basket. I tore leaves from the nearest cornstalks to restuff my husband's leg. I then patched his thigh with scraps of old skirts and aprons, sewing quickly, ever attentive to the clouds above us.

  With the leg mended, I examined the rest of him. A scratch on his cheek warranted three stitches, one gloved finger needed two. The jacket still hung from the pole; I dismissed it. I sat with him, holding the straw-stiff hand until a drop of rain spattered on my arm. “I must go inside,” I said. “I think it best you come in, too."

  I grasped the pole and pulled myself to my feet. By the time I reached the cottage door, I was soaked through. I stirred the hearth fire and waited. Soon the door creaked open. Darrell leaned in. He bit his lip, then stepped inside. “Come in, Darrell, and warm yourself,” I said.

  He shut the door. Absently, he rubbed the scar on his cheek. “Chloe—"

  "Come, warm yourself,” I said, looking into the flames.

  He joined me at the hearth. He touched my hand, tentatively, and when I didn't withdraw it, laced his fingers through mine. “Forgive me,” he said. “When I saw you leave that day, I feared you would not come back. When you did, all that fear turned to anger—"

  "I forgive you."

  "I worry sometimes that I'm not enough for you. Some nights, your hands seem to measure and weigh me, as if to compare me—"

  I placed my hand over his mouth. “Darrell,” I said. “I forgive you. Do you forgive me?"

  "Always,” he said. He smiled, relieved. The lines around his eyes deepened. My husband was a man in his thirties, weathered by the sun. The autumn and winter rains would cripple him. Come spring, my husband would dwindle to torn rags and crumpled straw. Far older than the months that bound him, he would stoop beneath the weight of the seasons until, his head cradled in my lap, he looked up at me one last time before the wind scattered him across the snow.

  I pulled myself into his arms and clung to him. Until spring, he was mine. He hugged me, then lifted my chin. His smile faded. “Chloe, what's wrong?"

  I held my breath, then exhaled. “Nothing. I'm just glad you're here."

  Summer turned to autumn. The scent of ripe corn hung on the breeze. Thomas Halpern's face healed and with it people's scorn. A few spoke to me, hesitantly at first, then freely, teasing me about my frail husband. I even went to the harvest dance, only to overhear Emma Grey comment, “She is more like Mollie Scarecrow every day."

  But Mollie Scarecrow never loved Darrell. I waited for Joseph Dunne and Ger Malins to drive me home.

  And Darrell aged. With each storm, he grew thinner and more pale until I could barely remember my young husband of the spring and summer. Yet his kisses remained sweet and his ways kind. He spoke more, as if to compensate for his failing body, enchanting me with stories about the animals and birds that inhabited the fields, and about the people who worked around him. He soothed me with remembered pleasures: the day I first bid him come, the week it rained every day and I asked him to remain indoors...

  One morning before the first snow, I convinced Ger Malins and Joseph Dunne to remove my husband from the pole. My basket well-lined with straw and cloth, I set about trying to heal the season's wounds and make my husband young again. I plumped him with straw, patching the smallest rips and frays. Just as I tied off the thread after applying a patch to his knee, my fingers tore through his thigh. Brittle with rot, the cotton could take no more. I called to Joseph and bade him replace my husband. He did so, carefully, but my husband's arm ripped under his grasp.

  The snows came. Each night Darrell seemed to fade before my eyes. A stooped man with sheer, mottled skin and bright eyes, he held me as if it hurt to clasp me as he once had. His breath was shallow and his laugh a wheeze. Two nights into the New Year, he plodded to the cottage, then sank into a chair and dozed.

  I dragged my chair next to his and watched him sleep. A tracery of veins throbbed at his temple. I took his hand.

  He started awake. “Have I been sleeping?"

  "You have.” I squeezed his hand. I pressed my lips together, decided to ask, decided not to, decided—"Darrell, will you come again? When the men hang the new scarecrow from the pole, will it be you?"

  He smiled sadly. “No."

  "Just one year...?"

  "I am the scarecrow,” he said, “and the seasons are killing me. Come spring, I will be gone.” He leaned forward. “But Chloe, promise me—remember my name. And remember that I can only give you what you ask."

  I gazed at the withered hand in mine. “Did you know, while I was making you, I dreamed you were a sailor and that some day you would take me to the sea. I embroidered my name on your heart so that—that..."

  He pressed my hand. “I know,” he said. “I know."

  As I held him that night and listened to his rustling breath, I pondered his words, “Remember my name.” What if, I thought, by naming the new scarecrow Darrell, I could somehow bring him back...

  I awoke the next morning. My husband dangled from the pole, his limbs askew. That night, he did not come, nor the next, nor ever again. I set about building another scarecrow, begging another pair of white trousers and another blue jacket. Emma sent a skein of white wool. I dyed it black. The buttons she sent were blue. I sent word to her that I needed brown. Joseph returned with her reply. “Emma said that like each man, each scarecrow is different,” he related, “as Mollie Scarecrow knew."

  After Joseph left, I sat on my bed and stared at the blue buttons on my palm. The new scarecrow's legs lay at the foot of the bed, his hands on the table. As Mollie Scarecrow knew. I flung the buttons across the room. One of them shattered. I grabbed the trousers by the ankles and shook them until straw littered the cottage. A few pieces fluttered into the fire. They burst into flames and quickly turned to ash, as short lived as my husband.

  "Mollie!” I shouted to whatever spirit haunted the cottage. “Did you love your husbands as I do? Did they come to you, men of flesh for a few brief hours, only to die come spring? Mollie! Did you ever tell anyone? Of course not, how could you, why would anyone believe you?"

  I dreamt of Mollie that night. “You knew,” she said, “you knew my husbands came to me. You knew the first night your husband came to you. But you were afraid of me. You refused to believe that we would become the same person."

  "We are not,” I said. “You never loved Darrell."

  Mollie shook her head. “Spare yourself. It is easier to let them go if you do not name them."

  The next morning with the sun sparkling on the snow, I walked to the pole and took Darrell's right hand. “How can you love me now?” I said. I held his hand until the chill seeped through me. Some days I just stood beside Darrell, other days I talked, creating futures that eddied around us like snow-flurries. My toes purpled and scaled with the cold, but still I went. When the palm of his right hand tore, I held his left. I feared spring. In spring, the people of the village would come for my husband.

  * * * *

  I held the door, blocking the men's entrance. Ger Malins and Rory Coates hung back, stamping their feet and glancing about them. Joseph Dunne nodded to me. “Good day, Mrs. Scarecrow,” he said. “We've come for the new scarecrow."

  I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “There is no new scarecrow."

  Color drained from Joseph's face. He snatched at Ger's
arm. “Go,” he said. “Fetch Emma.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and turned to me. “It is spring. We need a new scarecrow. The old one is little more than rags."

  "There is no new scarecrow,” I said. I shut the door. I brewed a pot of tea and waited for Emma.

  An hour later, without so much as a knock, Emma flung open the door. She stamped into the cottage. “Where is the new scarecrow?” she said.

  I gestured for her to sit. I nudged a cup of tea toward her and squared my shoulders. “I want no other husband,” I said.

  "Are you mad? Look at it, look at your ‘husband'! It is old, worn. What good is it to you or to us? Are the fields to go unprotected?"

  I glanced out the window. Joseph and Rory lowered my husband from the pole. “I will not have another,” I said.

  Emma slapped the table. “But you shall and many of them. Mollie Scarecrow lived for that. Of course she mourned the passing of each husband, but think what she had!"

  "Yes, a grief for every year,” I said. “I cannot face this loss each spring."

  Darrell's limbs, flat and limp, swayed as Joseph carried him across the field. I inhaled. The breath hurt. “Please, Emma,” I said. “Leave this one for me. I will make you another, just leave this one for me."

  Her face softened. “We cannot leave the fields unprotected. Can you make a new scarecrow tonight?"

  I glanced at the stuffed torso and hands shoved beneath the bed. A head and legs, that was all the new scarecrow needed. “I can,” I said.

  "Then I will leave this one for one night,” she said. She took my hand. “Chloe, the old scarecrow is dead."

  The truth of her words shrank to a hard knot inside me.

  Emma squeezed my hand and rose. “It is no use to you or to us, except as ash to bless the fields.” She went to the door and leaned out. “Joseph, bring the scarecrow here. We will delay the bonfire for one night."

  Joseph carried my husband inside. He questioned me with a look. “Just there,” I said, pointing. He lay Darrell on the bed.