A life of simplicity could not be condensed any more than into the life of a scarecrow.
Day by day, the sun rose and the sun fell, and he watched restlessly when ravens pecked at the cropping earth.
He felt unimaginably lonely, loose button eyes having memorized every yard of land that he could see. Nothing fresh other than the bright falling stars, twinkling meteorites that rocked silently in space trillions of miles away. Nothing other than the sadness whenever he saw people cross in front of him and not pay any mind to his failing stitches, his permanent grimace.
Until one say, a streak of black flashed across his vision, and stopped in front of him.
“Hello sir,” the bird cawed, its gleaming eyes unfathomable and penetrating. “I see you have been standing for a very long time.”
The scarecrow, never having been spoken to before, was afraid. This was one of the vermin who so frequently pecked upon him, was it not?
“You desire to mock me, crow?” said the man of straw. “Go somewhere else; I am weary enough without your scorn.”
“Ah, but you do not let me speak, Scarecrow,” And he spread his dark wings to fly up onto the Scarecrow’s shoulder. “You stand here only to watch the movement of the sun! Do you like to stand here? Are you chained? Oh no, not chained…” And, flying back to the ground, the crow examined the stick that bound the Scarecrow tightly to his place.
The crow had many mates, all of which were readying their new nests for egg season. Without a nest, laying eggs would be pointless. Without material, there would be no nests.
“Listen here crow, I’ve lived too many years in this spot, and there is nothing to be done. I’ve no interest in your stories.”
“Ah, but what if I could free you from this trap?” The crow queried softly. “Walk away from this and find a life of your own? A life of freedom.”
The Scarecrow said nothing in return, but watched the crow intently as he flew around him, sable feathers fluttering in loops. “Every day, I could take some straw, make you thinner, until you could slip from the ropes that bind you to your unchanging fate…” The crow stopped before him again. “What say you, man of straw?”
The Scarecrow was unsure of whether or not to trust the creature before him, but what was he to lose? Certainly no family, no real life.
There was nothing but change.
“Alright. I will accept your offer, crow. You will come to me, and every day take some straw. Why not all at once though? Why must I wait?”
“Settle, my friend.” The Raven replied, puffing out the feathers on his chest. “We must do this so not many notice. You still have the farmer to be concerned of, as he may refill you if he sees you suddenly too empty.”
The scarecrow considered this and sighed.
“Very well.” He said. “We can try. I would like to see something other than the stars and sun for once.”
The crow’s wings ruffled, his eyes gleaming like jewels.
“Then Scarecrow, tomorrow I shall come. You may expect me when the sun is high in the sky.”
Off he flew, growing smaller and smaller in the distance, until the Scarecrow’s button eyes could see no farther.
And the Scarecrow wondered if he could trust the creature’s plan.
The day passed under the Scarecrow’s eyes, and when night fell, he watched stars drip and vanish, granting wishes to those who perhaps had wishes to spend.
When the sun rose into the blue of the sky, the Scarecrow stiffened expectantly. A shadow dipped down from the heights and parked itself before him. The crow had come.
“Here I am for you, Scarecrow.” Announced the bird of black. “Now allow me to take your straw, and I will be off.” And as the crow promised, he prodded his beak into the Scarecrow’s worn clothing, withdrawing a beak of golden straw. The Scarecrow felt emptied for a moment, but it faded quickly.
“Be gone then,” said the Scarecrow. “Your business is finished here.”
“So it is.” Said the Raven, and he soared away, leaving the Scarecrow alone.
Day after day, the crow visited, taking away a mouthful of straw and flying away. Day after day, the Scarecrow felt emptier. Not only due to his body losing shape, but something within him felt as if it were draining.
It was late one night, that the Scarecrow’s attention was robbed from the moon, to be directed at a black bird.
The crow, who was cloaked in the ink of night, spiraled to a stop on the Scarecrow’s shoulder.
“What are you here for?” Snapped the Scarecrow. “You have already come to me today. I am tired, I am weak. Leave me be.”
But the bird did not respond, his gaze as fraudulent as always. “What do you want?” Still, no answer.
The scarecrow looked to his form, to see it empty. His head lolled around, tightly wrapped to the stick that dug into the earth. “I am not free.” Uttered the Scarecrow. “You said I would be free, why am I not free?”
Still, the bird did not answer, but instead flew up onto the Scarecrow’s shoulder, and pecked at the flimsy thread that kept him sewn together. The Scarecrow resisted to his maximum ability, but as the hay escaped him, He became more unable, until his head tore, and rolled with a nearly soundless “thump” on the ground.
Head split and straw tumbling out, a pressure was lifted from him, and he vanished.
Moments later an old farmer stepped outside in the dark to water his crops, and looked to the distant edge of the field – right above where a staff with no scarecrow stood – and at that moment he spent a wish on a star that didn’t drip, drop or fall.
It flew.