KITE AND THE SCARECROW

When Ellie Barcroft placed together a kite and a scarecrow, she knew it was the first step of a magical journey; for both them and those on Barcroft Farm. Though not one without contest for survival

KITE AND THE SCARECROW

©Timm Green 2016

I

 

How long have I been up here? Ah, the human comfort of numbers; how long, how much, how soon, how far? I have seen this landscape turn every hue that nature can set upon it. From rich summer golds to the poorer silvers of winter, and crafted with ease that would have the alchemist weep. But though I hold the value; I do not hold the sum.

 

This day I am in the caress of Southern Wind, a warm charmed dancer with gypsy stories and far-away tales. As he holds me he is gentle; gentle but firm and we dance his lead once, twice, three times around before he takes a flamboyant bow and a light ruffle of my ribbons upon his leave. I allow myself to be flattered by his rogue indiscretions and soon the privilege is mine to be further distracted by the air around and many acres of meadow below. Contours that shape this landscape and remain for the most part the same succulent blend of nature’s painting and human etching. Sometimes competing, sometimes the perfect compliment. As are the testimony of villages that sit on the banks of the river meandering its delicate turns. Small boats drift and follow its lead, craft of many colours, from the bright white of modern plastic to the ornate and beautiful decoration of the steel narrow. It seems curious to me, that wherever you place man, the first thing he wants is to be somewhere else. 

 

Many lives scatter beneath my wing, some strangers, some familiar. And then those closer to my heart, as on Barcroft Farm below me, with its beautiful windmill elegantly dominating the skyline. That is my home; the same proud home and farm of John and Ellie Barcroft. I watch over it and those that live and work there. Sharing their ups and downs as they share mine. Of course, to most of them I am just a kite, a bright red kite that darts around the sky deterring the hungry bird from the seeds they have worked so hard to sow. But the picture is a little broader, let me explain...

 

Below me lies the lifeline to which I am tethered, but also bound by heart and soul. For at its base stands Scarecrow, proud, handsome and to whom without, my life would almost have no meaning. He is one of quiet wisdom, a watcher who sees more from his single post than many that run to the furthest continents and think they grasp it all. Patient, he has to be, strong, he has to be, and kind; kind comes naturally. He is my solid ground that allows me to fly high, soar and dance with the wind, be frivolous with my tail if I choose. And it is to him that the philosophy which partly makes this farm such a success belongs. 

 

When he began his life as a scarecrow on Barcroft it was in the traditional manner; he scared the crows, they flew away, they returned. He scared the crows, they flew away, they returned. The endless cycle carried on until he decided there had to be a better solution, one which could achieve something positive. Also, it was not his way to be unpleasant; to anyone. He could do his job well enough, but his soul is gregarious and all this dismissing carved against the gentle curve of his softer nature.

       So he hatched a plan and invited the Elders of all the crow families to come and sit with him, to talk awhile, peacefully. They were at first understandably suspicious of his invitation. But Scarecrow’s easy charm won their confidences and soon they agreed to come and listen to what he had to say. He prepared by asking some of the field mice that scurry past if they would kindly gather a small but plentiful amount of seed, which they did; then laying the offering in front of him. Dusk fell and the guests duly arrived, forming a dark semi-circle in front of him. 

‘Please,’ said Scarecrow, gesturing toward the seed, ‘enjoy. All I ask in return is a small part of your time.' Resisting the temptation to steal the easy pickings and fly away, they one by one accepted his hospitality and settled to listen. 

He began by telling them that it seemed far better if they could all live in harmony instead of this tiresome and never ending warring.

They agreed. ‘But how?’ Opened Jay, 'After all, it is the nature of each other to be in conflict.’

‘Nature or nurture?’ Scarecrow replied. ‘We are placed on opposite sides by circumstance and tradition, but does that mean it is how we should remain?' Scarecrow offered a very possible solution he had been considering for some time, a solution of pure simplicity: 'If each of you took just the seed and amount of food you needed but no more and left the rest to grow healthily then there would be ample for you and plenty of growth for the harvest. The farm would flourish and it would ensure that there would always be a meal for you, your future and your childrens’ future. A great reward reaped for a relatively small investment. You each have your own particular methods for taking from the crops, and often in your understandable haste partly destroying some of what provides it. But if you all adapt, only slightly and accordingly, it could work well,’ he concluded. 

‘But, where’s the catch?’ asked Rook, a good hearted bird, but always with a slight air of suspicion.

‘That is the beauty,’ smiled Scarecrow ‘there is no catch. It is a matter of trust and common sense. Myself and Kite carry on satisfying the farm that we are undertaking our responsibilities and you take just what you need then happily disperse without the stress. It will still look much the same, but without all the fuss and we can begin to enjoy our time here. After all; look around at how beautiful it is. Shouldn’t everyone be able to savour where we live in peace? You noble creatures will be masters of inheritance, instead of the scroungers and thieves that would be believed by some.’ 

There were some mutterings for a while, especially from Magpie who was never short of a word. But everyone agreed that they could see the sense in principle of what Scarecrow had said.

‘And of those that can’t see the sense? That will greedily take and destroy everything anyway with no regard for others?’ Hooded Crow enquired. 

‘Then you will have to teach them, after all you are the Elders. Teach and lead by example. Soon the rewards will be felt and become apparent to all.

Some deliberating, ruffles and squawks amongst them followed. 

Until at last, Raven; the largest and eldest of the Elder Crows came forward. ‘It is agreed, we have a pact,’ he said.

Inspired by the success of the meeting, Scarecrow began to share his philosophy with all the wildlife that now passed him.

 

And so began the new exciting chapter in our lives. Scarecrows by name, but now enjoying the gain of friends and allies. The word spread quickly and it succeeded even better than Scarecrow could have imagined. The farm's yields began to flourish and we all became free to enjoy being who we are. The birds even teaching me an extra trick or two of flying skills.

Scarecrow, typical in his simple wisdom had given us all a much richer place to enjoy and live.

II

I watch Ellie come from the house, out of the yard and up to our field. Her soft red curls matching the warmth of the late summer sun as she springs along the track. She halts her step, raises her face to the sky, and a full half acre of smile looking up at me starts to wave. I tip my wing and return her compliment before she proceeds once more to her rendezvous, stopping where my Scarecrow stands.

‘And good afternoon to you Mister Scarecrow.’ Her Galway lilt floating easily on the breeze and up to where I fly. She places herself on the ground, sits crossed legged and studies him a moment. By no means a stranger to our home-space, Ellie will often take time from her schedule on the farm to come and sit with us for a while. 

Taking an apple from her bag, some bread and a chunk of cheese, she places them in the hammock of her lap. Favouring a style of long soft flowing dresses together with working boots, she manages to look always as if to either jump start a combine or give a piano recital would be perfectly acceptable behaviour.

Finishing the last of her picnic, she pulls herself to her feet, dusts off the crumbs, reaches once more into her bag and produces a long woollen scarf. The fading threads of the one Scarecrow has worn this past year are removed, and the replacement lovingly wrapped around his neck. Her small hands tucking and folding with careful precision. Then she stands a few paces back and admires her handiwork.

I watch them stand alone in the field as they face each other. My man; splendid with his tall straight back and cool reserve, and Ellie; the field of gold weaving into her flowing locks as if she might have grown out of the ground right there. They look for all the world as about to be joined in ceremony. 

A small cold front passes over my wing, I shudder briefly and it's gone. But I think of how unbearable it would be to not to have him in my life. My silly thoughts of insecurity are broken by a sudden outburst from below. 

Ellie is slapping her hands deep into her thigh and laughing so hard that the thermal of it rises up to catch me and I begin to laugh too. Though for the life of me I don’t know why. I hear the bewildered sounds of Scarecrow and it causes me to laugh even harder still. Ellie is like a child sometimes, a wonderful child in grown up clothes. Finally, managing to regain her composure, she steps up to him and makes her final adjustments. ‘Ah, Mr Scarecrow. You’re a beautiful sight indeed,' the laughter still holding her voice. ‘This will keep out the chill of these September nights, and it’s plenty long enough to comfort the both of you,’ nodding in my direction. Then she whispers something to his ear before kissing him on the cheek.

 

Content that all looks as it should, she delves amongst her things and produces her camera. Several contortions later she points the lens upward, placing Scarecrow and myself in her frame, and by the smile on her face I gather she has caught the image she is seeking. 

It was Ellie that brought the two of us together, "Fated" she said; that we should spend our lives here, that we would bring Barcroft Farm great luck. We are forever grateful for that beautiful gift and nothing in our hearts would ever let her down.

 

Quietly, she sits herself by Scarecrow’s side, looking out at the fields, as she does so often. Sometimes in silence, sometimes talking. 

I would ask him what she talks about when she sits beside him, and he would always tell me the same. That she talks about the farm, her family in Ireland and any gossip that she feels would be better nipped in the bud here than spread any further afield by her.

‘Tell me, why would she tell you such personal things Mr Scarecrow?’ I say, playfully feigning some jealousy, as is my claim after all.

He smiles that maybe she thinks he is just a good listener. ‘But I think mostly my dear Kite, it’s because she cares so much for us both and enjoys including us into the family of the farm.’

 

Scarecrow and I spend our days where we are happiest; myself in the air, my beloved on the ground, and our nights curled up in the warmth and safety of each other’s love. As my thoughts are lost in the wind and I’m flying free, Scarecrow will look up, pull on my line and smile and I will loop back. We have our codes. A small single pull for ‘Just to say hello.’ two for ‘Thinking of you,’ and three special long hard tugs reserved for ‘I love you’. We have many conversations this way and my loops for him can be quite elaborate in return. I asked one time, if ever he longed to fly as he sees me up there free in the wind’ 

But he said he has a fear of heights, was as well suited to the soil as I to the air and liked things just the way they were. ‘With your head in the clouds and my feet on the ground,’ he said, ‘together we are a giant.’

I told him there was probably enough cheese on this farm already. He smiled then together we laughed, drawing closer in the comfort of our good fortune. 

 

Ellie looks at her watch and gathers her things. Then with a final adjustment to Scarecrow and generous wave to me she is on her way bouncing back to the farm.

 

‘Nice scarf,’ I say to Scarecrow as I swoop gently down and in beside him, my days’ work over.

‘Ha! Yes,’ he laughs ‘another September and another scarf. Quite fetching don’t you think?’

My Scarecrow must be about the best dressed scarecrow that ever was. Ellie would tailor him in always the finest, no threadbare hand-me-downs for my man. I would have loved him just as much if he wore a snorkel and flippers, but I have to say, a handsome dash he strikes.

 

As the last rays of the sun signal a time for us settle, I curl my tail around Scarecrow, nuzzle into his shoulder and the soft September scarf.

‘So, Mr Scarecrow. I notice that you have lost none of your charms when it comes to the good farmer’s wife. A bigger fuss I never saw I’m sure. And what was the whisper and the kiss all about? Don’t think I don’t notice; I have an eye sharp as the hawk that resides in that meadow yonder.’

Scarecrow laughs again. ‘She was in high spirits today for sure, even higher than her normal self, I’ll be bound.’ 

And then he goes silent. I wait. Wait as patiently as this kite can, but Scarecrow remains quiet and looking out onto the field. He knows I am itching to know why and he is going to have his fun at my expense.

‘Well?’ I burst, no longer able to keep my curiosity under wraps. ‘What was the whispering kiss?’

‘Ahh yes, the peck on the cheek,’ he says coyly.

Birds peck, I tell him. It was a proper kiss and he jolly well knew it.

‘There is news.’ he begins, and then pauses again.

I fix him a stare that tells him if he doesn’t spill the beans soon he may not be in a position to do so for a very long time.

‘Well,' he proceeds, adopting the air of someone who has the honour of official with important announcement. ‘It has just been confirmed that Mr and Mrs John and Ellie Barcroft are to be expecting their first child in the coming of the next summer.’

I am too excited to carry on my jealous pretence. ‘Is it a boy? Is it a girl? Is it twins!’ I cry. I’m so happy I can’t keep quiet at all. Poor Scarecrow, I have more questions than he can possibly be expected to answer. But it makes no difference and I keep on firing them.

‘But ah, my beautiful Kite,' interrupts Scarecrow as I am going through the endless possibilities of names male, female and both together. ‘Talking of attentions and charms. You think I don’t see the flirtations of Southern Wind as he passes through? And especially with your beautiful tail.’

I blush a little.

‘Of course,' he adds. ‘I can hardly grudge him his impeccable taste.’

We both laugh as he pulls me in closer to him and together we watch the silhouette of the last birds returning against the melting blue before settling to our sleep. The slightest of his touch assuring me of where his heart and our affections firmly lie.

III

A large, squeaky clean 4x4 rumbles along the approach road to the farm and pulls into the yard. Out step two men, both dressed for the city. One carries a briefcase. John comes out from the farmhouse, dressed as he always is, prepared for whatever the farm will demand of him that day. The two men and their vehicle contrast starkly with their surroundings as the three of them go back into the house. 

 

The squeaky clean belongs to representatives of C H Holdings; a conglomerate farming corporation. The success of the farm has come to their attention and they want Barcroft to be part of their group. With John effectively becoming manager under shareholders’ direction. They make grand gestures and provide sky high graphs of profit and growth and a rosy future for him under their umbrella. But John has always resisted their offers. The farm has been proudly in his family name for generations and he isn’t about to let that change now. 

 

C H Holdings have plied a lot of pressure over the last year to let them in and these two big guns are from the more persuasive element of that group. Men not with reputation of failure behind them. But John is just as resolute regardless of their offers and not so long after they enter, the two are escorted out of the house again and over to their vehicle.

‘Well, think it over anyway John, and we’ll be in touch,’ says the man not carrying the paperwork.

‘Afraid you’ll still be wasting your time,’ replies John, shaking their hands cordially enough but with his eye on what awaits his attentions on the farm. He has given them as much time as he is prepared to. Avoiding a large puddle of muddy water that collects in its path, the 4x 4 pulls out of the yard and the two persuaders head back to the city from whence they came.

‘Interesting looking guys,’ comes a voice approaching from behind as John watches them pull away. The voice belongs to Tom; John’s right hand man and close friend.

‘Interesting is not the adjective I would use I’m afraid. Another lot from C H. All charm and grand ideas, but not the kind I want to be dealing with. They’d have us poly-tunnels and corporate logos in no time.’

‘Looks like you sent them off with a flea in their ear right enough,’ Tom laughs.

‘I did, but they’re the kind of dog that will keep on scratching I’m afraid, and I don’t think they’ll be giving up that easily yet.’

‘No,’ Tom says to himself as John heads off. ‘I don’t suppose they will.’ And he watches the tailgate disappear out of sight along the track.

'Hey!’ John calls back. ‘Are you and Mary free to come over for supper this evening? Be good for the four of us to sit down together and catch up properly.’

‘Sounds pretty good to me,’ says Tom.

‘Great, I’ll get Ellie to square it with Mary and we’ll see you about seven thirty?’

 

Mary; Tom's wife, runs the holiday cottages on the farm. The idyllic surroundings and working windmill always proving a popular getaway from the city. A car with several arms energetically waving from its windows pulls away as Ellie approaches.

‘More satisfied customers by the look of it Mary,’ she calls out, adding a few waves of her own. 

‘Yes, does your heart good doesn’t it? You know, that’s the third time they have been here? I’m just going to put the kettle on before I start to get ready for the next booking, fancy a cuppa?'

'Perfect timing,’ Ellie replies as they head inside. She sits herself at the kitchen table while Mary heads for the kettle. ‘Did Tom mention about coming over this evening?’

‘Yes, we’re really looking forward it. I hear you had another visit from those C H boys earlier.'

‘Huh, don’t you talk to me about those people. I leave them for John to sort out now, I’ve heard all I want to hear from the likes of them I can tell you. I’d much rather the sport of setting the dogs on them and watch them running round getting their shiny shoes all mucky.’ They both laugh as Mary joins her at the kitchen table with the teas and the biscuit tin.

‘So, my dear,’ says Mary, ‘this evening’s get together?’ Stopping to root out her favourite: chocolate with bits of ginger. ‘Are there likely to be any little announcements by any chance?'

Ellie blushes a little and giggles behind her long curls. ‘I can’t think what you mean Mrs Hamlyn.' Trying not to look too pleased with herself.

‘I would know that expectant bloom anywhere and no mistake Ellie Barcroft.’

‘Have you said anything to Tom?’ asks Ellie.

‘I’ve told him that I have a notion you might be.’

'Don’t let on you both know, it’s going to be John’s big moment, he’s so chuffed and I don’t want to steal his thunder.'

 

Harvesting is coming into full throw and there will be combines out till way after dark. But John knows he can rely on his staff, and tonight will be a rare one he can relax in.

‘Knock, knock,’ calls Mary as her and Tom enter the threshold of the farmhouse, the front door ajar.

‘You can come in if you’re good looking,’ comes back the Irish accent from the kitchen. 

John is already coming down the stairs and greets them with a hearty welcome. He’s a tall man, dark and lean. Handsome, but without the vanity that can often make it unattractive. A man also given the capacity to readily spring into life at the slightest reason for good cheer. They settle to a perfect table of great company and the finest fayre. John has made his proud announcement of their future parenthood, with both Mary and Tom having successfully acted out their complete surprise. 

While Ellie and Mary catch up on gossip in the kitchen, John and Tom are in the sitting room sharing a drop of whisky. 

John studies the glass in his hand. ‘I’d better make the most of this one Tom, it will be my last until the baby’s born.’

‘Really?’ exclaims Tom.

‘Well, Ellie not being able to drink, it doesn’t seem fair.’

‘You’re made of stronger stuff than I am, it’s a long time to go without a drink after a hard day outside.’ 

They chink their glasses, laughing together.

‘Tom... on a more sober note, I know how hard you and Mary have been trying for a family. We were a little concerned about how this news might affect you both. I hope this evening has been ok.’

‘You and Ellie are our family, and I know I speak for Mary when I say we couldn’t be more pleased for you.’

‘Thanks Tom, that means a lot to us both. We go back a heck of a long way you and me. I can’t believe we used to run around here in short trousers finding mischief to make, and now here we are responsible for its upkeep.’

‘Well, It’s a great time for a child to be coming along, what with the farm doing so well. People are saying you must have done a deal with the devil. They can’t begin to match the yields we are bringing in.’

‘It’s been good, I’ll admit that Tom, really good. I can’t take all the credit though; I am blessed with the best when it comes to the people I have around me.’

‘Hello you two,’ Ellie calls out as she and Mary come to join them. ‘Sorting the wheat from the chaff are we?’.

‘I was just saying to John how the other farms are quite envious of Barcroft,’ says Tom.

‘I say it’s all down to hard work and a great team,’ John replies. ‘But Ellie here,’ slipping his arm around her waist, ‘she has other notions. She insists we are “Guardianed” by two angels in that field out there,’ gesturing outside with his glass. ‘That kite and scarecrow can you believe? She swears they are lucky charms ever watching over us.’

‘Ah now, you shouldn’t mock the wisdom of what you can't see,’ she smiles, settling between his lap. ‘I tell you, those two have the charm on them, and it comes all the way back to us right enough.’

‘Honestly,’ replies John. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much, but that Scarecrow is better dressed than I am!’

I can always bring you some of his cast offs if you're running short of something decent for the next set to with C H.’ She laughs.

‘Might not be such a bad idea. In fact, I think I’ll just send them up the field to talk to him next time. It’ll save me keep wasting my breath.’

‘Well. Here’s to you Ellie,' says Tom.

‘To you both and your good news,’ adds Mary. 

 

The evening draws to a close and Tom and Mary head back across the yard to their cottage. Tom pulling Mary closely to him as they go.

IV

A light dusting of dry snow plays in the hollow of Scarecrow's hat, chasing itself into small spirals as I fly down to join him. Another layer sits on his shoulder, I scatter it away with my tail and then settle comfortably in its place.

 

In these winter months, Scarecrow and I can relax a little. The long nights enabling us to spend more time together. I snuggle into his warm straw and we talk endlessly. Sometimes almost about nothing at all. Each season has its wonderful gifts, but this one I treasure as my very own. Scarecrow talks of his ideas for the farm and how it would be if it was his. He could have been a farmer, his insight into the land and nature, as with most things, always one of patient study and consideration. His respect for John and how he runs the farm, handles people and maintains complete respect for both is of the highest. I often wonder what he would give for the chance to be able to share with him. We don’t see as much of him as we do Ellie. But sometimes she will bring him to one of her picnics, get him to sit and relax and enjoy the land just for the sake of its beauty. They both doing so earlier, catching the last of the light together. Ellie, radiant as ever plus a small visible bump beneath her coat.  Scarecrow and I not resisting the chance to eavesdrop as they both start throwing possible names around and share a flask. Though still no hint of whether a girl or boy.

 

* * *

 

The arrival of spring brings with it the return of the shiny 4x4. A newer model, but with the same old faces behind the wheel. Though their visits are not directly to the farmhouse or to John, they choose a more stealth like approach and a small undercurrent of disquiet has become noticeable on the farm. Nothing of consequence, just a sense of the normal happy balance being slightly out of kilter. 

Tom decides to ask Sam to help him replace a gate in one of the fields. He’s known Sam for some years and hopefully it will give him an opportunity to find out what, if anything, may be wrong.

‘Sam?’ Tom says as they are finishing. ‘Is everyone ok? One or two of the guys don’t seem their bright and bristly self lately. I don’t like to see staff unhappy, especially if I can help in some way.’

‘Aww, it’s those guys from C H,’ he replies.

‘Go on,’ Says Tom.

‘Well, they have been up here quite bit lately.’

‘Up at the farm? I haven’t seen them.’ Picking up a cloth to wipe his hands as he leans against the new gatepost.

‘No, they come to search us out when we’re working up in the fields sometimes, and then they appear in the village pub of an evening just as we’re trying to relax.’

‘Do they now. And?’

‘Well, they keep on about how great Barcroft would be under them and how we could all be so much better off. They tend to pick on one of us when we’re on our own mostly, trying to set us off and cause a bit of trouble I think.’

‘I see. And how do you and the others feel about what they have to say?’

‘I don’t like ‘em, none of us do. We don’t like or trust ‘em to be honest with you Tom.’

‘But?’

‘Well, they have us wondering what John, Ellie and yourself might be thinking and whether there is a chance that Barcroft could go in with them. It’s got us bit unsettled I guess.’

‘Hmm…’ is all Tom replies. They put the tools into the truck and head back. ‘Thanks Sam!’ Tom says. He parks the truck and heads off to find John.

‘Right,’ says John. ‘You know; I’ve had just about enough of this. I’m going to invite Furman and his sidekick over, and at the same time I want you to organise a meeting in the barn. It's high time for a good old face to face. I’ll not have anyone try and undermine this farm.’ 

 

Thursday 6 pm is set for the meeting. The C H boys are only too keen to come to the farm, thinking that maybe John has seen sense and having second thoughts.

‘Gentlemen!’ John greets them, enthusiastically shaking their hands as they extract themselves from their vehicle. 

They instinctively go to walk toward the house. ‘No, this way if you please.’ says John, steering them toward the barn. 

The two enter after John and are surprised by the group of people they see seated before them. 

John guides them to two empty chairs on the right-hand side of a raised platform. Ellie, Tom and Mary are already seated to the left, a small table placed in the middle with a jug of water and some glasses divides them.

He comes to the front of the stage and addresses the barn: 'Ok everyone. First of all, let me thank you all for attending this evening. Now as you know, there has been a lot of traffic from the two gentlemen on my left to this farm recently, and it has understandably set some rumours and speculation in motion amongst yourselves about its future. So I have called this meeting to bring everyone and everything out into the open where it belongs.’ 

He explains to all what C H want from him, what they offer and the glowing promises they have made; and in concluding: ‘Now, I want to tell you all what I feel about it, so there can be no doubts in anyone’s minds. I have listened to their offers and I have no interest in turning this farm into the hands of such a corporation. I have told them so in no uncertain terms and they seem to unable to accept that answer. But, as far as I’m concerned, no it is and no it will remain.’ 

There are murmurs of appreciation in the audience. 

‘But,' adds John 'I also want to say, that all of you have a stake in this farm, it’s your livelihood, and you should be able to have your voice too. So I would like to invite our gentleman friends here to talk to all of you at this meeting and then avail themselves to any questions you may have. ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, offering them the floor.

Colin Furman rises from his chair, the briefcase remaining seated. He stands at the front and introduces himself formally. An imposing figure in expensively tailored suit, hand-made shoes and a particularly expensive watch flamboyantly adorning his wrist. A man comfortable being at the front of an audience. He firstly congratulates Barcroft Farm on being one of, if not the most, successful of the independent farms still around, they have produced astounding yields and returns in these past years and that is obviously why he is here. He then proceeds to paint in great detail a considerably glowing version of an even more rosy future for Barcroft Farm under C H's wing. When finished; he welcomes any questions that they may have for him.

Pete Roulston, ploughman; stands. ‘If this farm came under your group Mr Furman, just how safe would the jobs of those that work on the farm really be? You would be bound to bring in some of your own people, and there would be a lot changes to my thinking.’

‘A very good question Mr Roulston,’ Furman begins. ‘Let me assure you that C H Holdings would honour your contracts on this farm, you would be as secure, indeed, more secure than any of you are now in my opinion.’ And then he further expands in quite a grandiose manner about the chances and opportunity for the right kind of people within the group, and all very impressively it has to be said. Lacking only corporate PowerPoint images for the dressing. Upon finishing, he has the countenance of someone who feels they should be suitably impressed by.

Matt Harrison now rises, and everybody hushes. Matt has been on the farm for as long as anyone can remember. His family having a long tradition of its employ and his opinion very well respected amongst them. ‘Well, I’ve listened to what Mr Furman and C H Holdings have to say.’ He begins in his own steady unhurried style. ‘And for my part, you may have fancy promises; you may have fancy names and ideas for the way things should be run here,’ he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blows his nose. John and Ellie try hard not to laugh. 

‘But, this farm has given me a long and happy working life so far and very fond of it I am. It runs like clockwork and a more satisfied workforce I would defy anyone to find.’ 

There are sounds of approval amongst the chairs around him. ‘So, if anybody would like my opinion, and if it were my farm, I would tell those fancy suits to get in their fancy cars and, get off my land!’

The whole barn stands and cheers their support, some slapping Matt on the back and they begin to chant: ’Get off my land! Get off my land! Get off...' 

Mr Furman is a man more used to applause and his expensive feathers are clearly ruffled as he returns to his seat.

John lets the assembly enjoy their moment and then stands and encourages the room to settle again. ‘Well,’ he begins. ‘I think we seem pretty unanimous in our opinions of C H Holdings offers. So, it just leaves me to thank everyone for their time. And all I can say gentleman...’ looking toward the two now seated on his left, ’Is would you now kindly; get off my land!'

Another cheer goes roaring through the barn. The suits rise, and without stopping for pleasantries get into their car and leave to the resounding excitement of the barn behind them.

‘Well,’ says Tom, ‘I think that went pretty well don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ replies John. ‘I’m quite relieved to have got that out of the way I can tell you.’

‘It was a brave thing to do though John, there could have been some dissent?’

‘I know, but this farm relies heavily on all of them Tom. And you can’t expect people to invest in something they can’t have an opinion about is my way of thinking.’

V

‘Take care!’ Scarecrow calls as I head aloft. It is unusual for him to part with a word of caution, but this morning’s air is unsettling. The high temperatures of these past days of June will bring a price. Waking to a deep red mackerel sky clinches it; time to settle the bill.

‘I hope your hat still holds out the rain Mister Scarecrow,’ I say to him. ‘I think it’s going to be of some service to you today.’

‘Just you worry about your beautiful wing my angel,’ he replies.

‘Ha! The ducks and I are waterproof,’ I laugh, and blow a kiss as I take to the air. 

 

Rolls of thunder rumble through a long swelling bruise with a dark curtain of rain already falling behind. I was hoping that we may have got away with a low sweep of heavy downpour and then be left in peace. But a less benign storm is rapidly forming. Grey cloaked vagabonds steal amongst the folds of its billowing cloud and scatter shards of light in all direction: the bidding of an unseen sorcerer conducting an overture that tunes the wind to menace and low rumble an underscore of battle-cry. Rook, Raven and a few others are circling nearby. They signal that they are heading back down to sit this one out, their undercarriages the last I see of them as they turn and then descend. It’s an odd feeling, that momentary loneliness when others take their leave and you remain; question your own wisdom, yet still remain. A few tugs on my line take my attention to Scarecrow. He pleads for me to come down and shelter with him.

‘I will be fine!’ I reassure him. ‘I promise!’ I blow him another kiss and resume my concentration. But the storm now rolls toward me far more rapidly than I had anticipated and too soon the winds are upon me, violent and turbulent. "Fine", is suddenly not how I’m feeling at all. The sky is growing wilder. I am hypnotised and captivated by the unfolding drama, scared, but still too enthralled and obstinate to leave. A vast wall of cold air consumes my wing and I brace myself for the rain that is bound to come with it. But the intensity at which it strikes catches me off guard, spinning me wildly and I struggle to regain my level flight. 

My line is violently pulled taut as I’m drawn fiercely into a hungry vortex, only to stall as I am thrown with equal force back out again. A further onset of pounding rain beats against my wing and every fibre of me is starting to ache as I twist and turn under the strain of such opposing forces. Awns of barley below me run patterns of frenzied panic into the landscape as they try to flee the clawing talons of an avaricious grasp. I manage to level myself long enough to gain a clearer sight of what surrounds me. Then I am hit with the horrendous knowledge that I am caught helplessly in the outer layers of the raging, breathing, anvil headed cloud: Cumulonimbus Incus. Just about the foulest thing you would ever want to meet on land, sea, heaven or earth. I curse the stupidity and stubbornness that made me stay, but it came quicker than I have ever seen. If I felt alone before, I am now completely desolate. I cannot chance trying to return down, I would be crushed the instant I showed my back. My only hope of any survival is to draw on every resource of my flying skills, thank the birds, and pray with all my might for mercy, miracle or both. Nothing within reach is safe from this beast too blind in its own fury to be even called malevolent, but whose wake is one of complete cold and regardless carnage. Great hollows of black, open at the base of the beast and from its vast dribbling maw a deafening rage of rain, hail and jagged lightning scream at the open the sky, me, and anything else with the misfortune to be in its deadly range. Every sinew of me shrinks in mortal terror as I contemplate what can only be the worst. 

A flash of movement darts below; Ellie running across the yard toward the windmill. The wind is violently slamming at its open door and in danger of tearing it from the hinges. She is fighting hard to close it, her red hair a raging fire against this storm. A violent gust curls behind the heavy oak, its hand casting her down the steps and into the mud drenched ground, before a deafening crack splits the air as a bolt of lightning, hungry for prey, satisfies its appetite on an innocent blade of the windmill. Severing it from the rest of the structure and sending it crashing down toward where Ellie has fallen. In a moment the heavy splintered remains are on top of her. I scream in horror and at the same instant another fork strikes out at my line. I feel the familiar tension of safety fall loose from under me and in that briefest pause I see John run across the yard. I hear the distant voice of Scarecrow call my name through the cages of this mayhem and then I am thrown across an empty sky.

 

 

 

 

VI

‘Ellie!’ John races to the wreckage. She is lying pinned down and face up, motionless.

Tom comes running out of his cottage. ‘Mary has called the ambulance, they’re on their way!’

‘Ellie, can you hear me?’ John is trying not to let the panic sound in his voice.

She is unconscious, bleeding badly from a wound on her head, the rain lashing across her face, washing the blood into a pool beside her.

John moves closer to her, listening for her breathing. ‘Ellie!’ he calls again. ‘We have to get her out from under here Tom! God knows how heavy it must be!’

It’s hard to communicate through the noise of the wind and the rain, the still slamming door of the windmill adding to the cacophony.

I too am caught up in the tangle of this mess, I must have instinctively aimed myself toward Ellie and become somehow wrapped up in the carnage. I can see her injuries are severe.

While John tries to shield Ellie from the rain, Tom rushes to get help and some timber to make a fulcrum and they gently take the weight from Ellie as best they can.

‘Don’t move her!’ Mary cries, running from her cottage. ‘The baby! Oh my God the baby!’ She has brought a cover to shield Ellie from the lashing rain and something to try and stop the bleeding.

John is on his knees in the mud, one hand cradled beneath her head, keeping her from the wet ground, the other trying to stem the flow of blood with the towel. Constantly talking to her in the hope of a response.

 

Sirens blare as an ambulance and two fire engines speed into the yard, the paramedics the first to get to Ellie.

‘She’s pregnant!’ John pleads through his tears. ‘She’s pregnant!’ he repeats again.

They assure him that they will do everything in their power to save both her and the baby and he moves aside to let them attend, watching powerless as Mary tries her best to comfort him.

Both the paramedics and fire service move swiftly and in a short while Ellie is free, but every movement and moment feels an eternity. She is still unconscious when taken to the ambulance. John climbs in with her, Tom and Mary following on in their car.

 

A calamity of splintered beams and torn sail remain left behind in the yard, wet with mud and also stained in some places with the blood of Ellie’s injuries as farm labourers begin to clear some of the wreckage. They work quietly and efficiently, hardly a word is spoken, but their bleak faces speak volumes. 

One of them untangles my line and frees me from the debris. 'I don’t know how this managed to get here.’ He says, passing me to one of the younger lads. ‘Best put it in the barn out of the way for now.'

Except a few missing ribbons of my tail, some scuffs and covered in mud I am mostly unharmed. Though quite how I escaped total destruction I have no idea. By rights I should have been torn to shreds in that storm. The lad takes me into the barn and places me out of the way up inside the hay-loft. From here I can see from a small window both the yard and Scarecrow standing in the distant field. I call to him, desperate that somehow he can hear me.

* * *

 

The storm is passing over Scarecrow, the bilious clouds still rumbling with enough anger to make the ground beneath him tremor as they disperse; scattering in all directions like thieves back to their lair. And then the air becomes still, silent, surreal in its sudden and vacant calm. He desperately scans every contour before him, seeking any sign of Kite's red wing. Into the trees now wrestled to the ground by the storm, over the barley strewn in every direction and under pieces of debris scattered like toys in a crèche. But the carnage reveals no sign of her anywhere.

* * *

 

I hear Tom and Mary return to the farm. It's grown dark, but I can see by the yard lights that Mary is crying as they walk to their cottage, Tom gently comforting her. There is no sign of John or Ellie and no one comes to take me to our home-space. I curl my tail around me for comfort as I begin to feel the cold separation from Scarecrow and the fullness of night begins. The first I have ever spent without the arms of him to keep me warm and safe. I realise I don’t know how to sleep on my own, or even to wake. I try to think how I can make Scarecrow hear me, to let him know that I am safe in this barn. Someone will come tomorrow and put me back with him. Then we will comfort each other again. I try to reassure myself, to sleep and bring the day more quickly, but my thoughts remain fretful and I struggle through the long cold night.

'Tom, wait!'  Mary calls out over the sound of their car starting, stirring me from whatever sleep I have managed. It has rained in the night and I see a small brown puddle resettling itself from the invasion of a passing foot. ‘You nearly forgot this,' holding a neatly folded blanket closely to her as she walks over to him. He takes it through the window and places it on the passenger seat as her hands rest on his door. They exchange a few words while Tom's hand strokes her arm. She leans in, kisses him, and he drives away. Staring motionless at the yard, she looks fragile and tears begin to swell as she takes in the remains of the windmill blade still dominating the now dormant scene.

 

I ache from being unaccustomed to such an unnatural position for so long. By now, I would usually be aloft, the sun on my wing, the cool air running through my tail and Scarecrow below me with his reliable smile. Somewhat impatiently I look on as the energies of clearing the yard begin, hoping for some indication that someone will come up here and return me to my home=space. But all are busy with their heavier work, a natural priority of course. And then they will come. Yes, then they will come.

'Caw! Kite, are you in here? Caw!'

Jackdaw! He has flown into the barn and landed on the bales of straw underneath me. I knew they would look for me. Found! I'm found! Excitedly I draw breath to call back to him, but my voice is drowned by the sudden barking of one of the farm dogs. I hear the urgent flapping of wings as he hurriedly takes off out of harm’s way and the bark of the retreating animal diminish as it energetically chases its sport from the yard. I wait, desperate to hear him or one of the others return. But as I feared, he never heard my call and no more visitors come to my rescue.

 

Tom's car returns, John is with him but no sign of Ellie. He steps slowly from the car and I recognise the blanket wrapped around something cradled in his arms. Mary comes quietly from her cottage, taking it gently from him and I glimpse the tiny face of a sleeping new-born. John watches them disappear, standing vacantly against the car. Then sobbing uncontrollably, he crumples slowly to a fragile heap.

 

Several days have now passed, the usual tools lay dormant and an undercurrent of quiet clings to the air. Many are gathered, standing in small and sombre groups as if respectfully waiting for something. John appears at his front door holding the new-born in his arms and dressed in a dark suit, as are most of those present. A long black car pulls into the yard and the procession quietly leaves... 

VII 

 

‘I’m sorry Scarecrow,’ says Carrion settling before him, ‘there is still nothing.' The crow families have spread wide their search for Kite. They have flown high over fields and low into thickets, copses and ditches. Anywhere they could think of has been scoured but without reward. Quietly among themselves, they agree the only conclusion can be of the worst. It was a vicious storm, wreaking havoc and Kite is a thing of no independence once cut from her line. If she had survived they would have surely found her by now.

‘Have you checked the farm?’ Scarecrow asks. His voice thin with the pain.

‘We have my friend, I’m afraid there is no sign.’

Never before has Scarecrow wanted to venture from his spot, he belonged and was happy there, belonging as the oak does to its roots. But now he wanted to run, run as fast as ever possible. He wanted to run to every corner of every place, call out Kite’s name and bring her safely home.

 

'Have you seen Kite?' Every day he asks any creature that passes the same question and every day the same negative reply, or apologetic shrug of shoulder. His questions never cease and his plaintive eye never stops its searching. But slowly his friends on the ground and the crows in the air come to him less, uncomfortable in his heartache and their inability to relieve it. The days draw to weeks, the weeks to months and then to much longer and those that he now asks have no memory of a kite flying over him in the field. They begin to taunt him as he becomes 'The mad old scarecrow who's lost his kite, marbles more like, ha ha ha…' An object of ridicule and torment by the adolescent birds, they swoop down, steal a single strand of his straw and wear it, proof of their rite of passage.

The philosophies he began and shared and pact he built now become lost and forgotten among those that live on the farm, along with his passion for telling them. He emptily looks over the fields before him. Fields that once held a vision but now a space, a space where maybe Kite lies and calls to him and where maybe still she might be found. He dreams sometimes that she is there on his shoulder, resting against him as he sleeps, only to wake to the cold reality of her absence. Those are the most beautiful and yet the hardest nights of all. 

His waking eyes still seek her and his heart calls out to her across the landscape, a habit as much as a vigil, and he braces himself for another winter setting in. 'Another winter? How many?' He tries to remember, his mind muddied with the blurring of the now countless days and nights alone. 'Another winter...? Where is Kite? And where is Ellie?' But this winter's heavy snows begin to drift deeply, burying him along with the last of his hopes. No longer feeling part of a giant, he breathes his final belief in her survival, falls silent in his voice, in his head and in his heart from the pain and constant ache for Kite.

VIII

From its former pride, fate seems determined to have brought Barcroft's fall. Several harsh winters, leading to one of the worst in the farm's memory have continually meant both hard work and small returns for the farm. The soils, rock in their hardness, making the sowing of crops a late, slow and arduous process. Crops that prove to be diseased on more than one occasion and have to be destroyed. Sagas that stretch the farm's resources seem to follow one another in every direction. Even the holiday cottages suffering as both the once popular windmill gains notoriety and sunshine short-breaks prove a more attractive temptation from the growing inclement and unpredictable seasons. Despite John and everyone’s best efforts, the financial toll is severely mounting. 

 

A jarring grind of metal against metal echoes around the yard as the windmill blades shudder loudly to a halt. John finds Tom inside already inspecting the damage.

‘It’s the gearing John, looks like it’s just sheared some teeth, but I will have to get in there to asses it properly.’ 

The mill is in mid flow of producing an important order of flour for one of the organic bakeries, one of the few that are still willing to be loyal to him in these times.

‘How long before it can be fixed do you think?’

‘That’s specialist work with an old mill like this, I really wouldn’t want to say.’ 

John stares in disbelief as he contemplates another setback and expense. The farm already remortgaged and struggling to pay its creditors as it is. ‘Whatever next Tom? Just whatever possibly can be next?’

 

Aged beyond the five years now passed from bereavement and stress of trying to keep the ailing farm from going under, John has come to resent the inescapable windmill that towers over the yard. The newer timber of the offending blade still retains a difference in shade after its repair; a haunting reminder of that dreadful day and the life it took. Each time he lays his hand on its door he questions whether it was he that had not shut it properly that day, whether it was because of him that Ellie ran across the yard in a desperate attempt to stop it from being torn from the hinges. Every day he thinks of her lying there and every day it cuts him just as deeply.

‘Daddy!’ A young and excited voice runs to greet him as she steps out of Mary’s car. John scoops her up into his arms and swirls her around while she screams in delight. He has young Ellie to think of now, to try and keep safe, and they are as close as any father and daughter could possibly be.

 

‘And this,’ Tom says to John from the top of the windmill steps, 'Is all we need.’

John looks up and sees the 4x4 enter the yard. ‘Right on cue, right on bloody cue!’ replies John, kissing Ellie on the cheek and putting her to the floor.

‘A spot of trouble?’ calls out Colin Furman as he steps from his vehicle and reads their faces. He has almost perfected the art of understatement and sincerity in his voice. Almost, but not enough to satisfy John. Every gloating intonation resounds like a drill in a dentist chair.

‘How can I help you Mr Furman?’ John asks, retaining his composure.

The farm’s hard times have C H Holdings constantly returning like vultures over a dying carcass, leaning more heavily on John than ever. But their offers nowhere near what they were when Barcroft would have been their proudest jewel. 

‘Come on man.’ Furman says to John as they talk outside the farmhouse. ‘You have to see sense, surely? No one will give you credit soon, where will you even get seed in the end? Put everyone out of their misery. Give up on your principles and take the offer before this place finally collapses around you. At least with us there will be still be farm.’ 

But John’s answer still remains the same firm refusal.

***

 

For the briefest of pause between sleep and awake, a lightness fills my heart as I turn to speak to Scarecrow. It is the slightest of beats and I hold desperately to the warmth of it before cold reality reminds me he has not been at my side for many a season. The familiar forms of my surroundings soon falling into shape as I fully wake. Things untouched for as long as I have been, lie and lean and hang, mostly forgotten. My once proud wing now wearing their same overcoat of gathering dust; the unproud uniform of a motley and static regiment. But each day I still remind myself who I am, what I am, and hope that someday it will matter once again. Outside is now obscured by the mounting cobweb and grime long since covering my window and I try to picture Scarecrow in our field, our home-space. Hoping he is coping as I endlessly feel the pain of his loss. I try to picture him in his solitude. I try not to picture another kite keeping him company. How such small thoughts so easily become large tortures through long days of inactivity. But the nights; the nights are my sanctuary. My time for recalling the intimate detail of Scarecrow to my mind. I will not relinquish these, no matter how long I am here, love is for eternity, wherever it is spent. I relive many of our conversations, and listen to his stories, never tiring of their form or the warm comfort in his voice. And never failing to cry myself to another restless sleep.

***

‘I can't believe It’s been such another awful year,’ says John as he, Tom and Mary sit down together to share a supper, which they do as often as they can now. Young Ellie tucked safely into her bed. ‘No matter what we try to build up, something knocks it back down again, look at the latest episode with the windmill. Taking care of that has stretched the bank’s goodwill to as near breaking point as I’d care to go.’

‘Things will change John,’ says Mary, reaching across and squeezing his hand. ‘You’re a damn good farmer, one of the best, things have to turn for the better soon.’

‘I really don’t know how much longer we can keep it all going though. The bank is becoming less helpful and C H are really coming on heavy. I'm amazed they've kept up their interest in this farm for so long, especially now.'

'It's still valuable estate to them though John,' says Tom 'and still an impressive addition to their portfolio for the shareholders.'

'Maybe I’m just being stubborn but I can’t let them take over now after the fight we have all put up surely?’

‘We still support you on that,’ says Tom. ‘Everybody does, despite what we are going through. We all know if they took over now we would be as good as out on our ear anyway.’

‘Well,’ replies John. ‘I’m greatly indebted to you all, I must say. But I am scared though. It feels like I’m falling down that deep well out there. I just want get to the bottom so that I can start to climb back up again.’

 

With John’s last refusal, C H Holdings notify him that they now formally withdraw any offers of interest in Barcroft farm. The last conversation with them plays through John’s mind over and over as he carries on fighting to save it. While C H Holdings are certain now that the farm will go under. That their strong influence with the bank will get them to call in John’s debt, allowing them to pick up the farm for practically nothing and throwing John, along with the others out in the process. A revenge that Colin Furman will particularly enjoy after the humiliation he has never forgotten in the barn that evening. All they have to do now is circle patiently and wait.

IX

My ears have now become my extra eyes in this subdued light, and I draw images from the sounds in the yard. I try to piece together the farm with those of my memories from aloft. Such opposite worlds, such different perspectives. Small things that add contours to this space. For instance; I would never have known that both the front door hinges of the Farmhouse and Tom and Mary’s cottage had creaks when they open. Both very different, the Farmhouse deeper, burdened by a heavier timber and the cottage a quicker, lighter note. I can also tell from the sound who is opening their door; Tom or Mary. I know the owner of every footstep on the farm, the sound of every vehicle acutely familiar. These games and minutiae are my slim grasp to some sanity, and any new sound is like manna from heaven for me to try and absorb.

The first I hear of this particular one is a small creaking of the ladder, lighter and more tentative than I've heard before. Then a long silence before another as someone begins to climb, accompanied by a small voice.

'Three... four...' A voice I recognise as young Ellie. I have never seen her, but I have often heard her laughter and tried to picture her as she plays in the yard or the barn below. She is quietly counting the rungs one at a time. 'Five... six... seven...’

'Go on Ellie, you can do it'. I will her on, feeling myself shake in anticipation. I begin to count with her, impatient for the sound of every step that brings her nearer. 

'Eight… nine… ten…' And then she stops, I hold my breath and the sound of my own heart is racing in my ears as I listen for the counting to continue and hoping she has only stopped to gather her courage. Courage that I pray doesn’t desert her. 

‘Eleven…’ she begins again.

‘Come on Ellie, just a few more steps.’ My heart is racing faster now. ‘Don’t give up, please don’t give up!’

I have often heard John telling her not to climb the ladder and I know I should be thinking of her safety, and I am, but I'm also desperate for her to come into the hayloft. If she does and finds me then who knows? I feel like a poacher trying to lure some game into their lair as I egg her on in my mind.

‘Twelve…’ I see the top of her head in this half-light and I am startled by her mother's familiar rich locks of red as she appears through the opening.

‘Ellieee!’ I hear her name called loudly from the ground.

‘Oh no, please no!’ I scream inside.

It’s her father’s voice. ‘Tom, have you seen Ellie?’ Tom and John are in the yard just outside.

I hear her take in a sharp breath and the fear of being caught propelling her up the final rungs of the ladder. Crouching down, she silently watches her father and Tom talking together.

‘Not for a while John no.’

Ellie makes herself as small as possible. As much afraid of being found as I am of not.

‘She’s probably making mischief or chasing the chickens, do you want me to have a look? She won’t be far anyway,’ says Tom.

‘Oh, no, it’s ok, I’m just going to the top field with the tractor, and it would’ve been nice to have her along for the ride. I worry that she doesn’t get enough of my time. I’ll read her an extra bedtime story tonight to make up for it.’

I can hear Ellie almost shout out, but then she remembers where she is and knows there would be no tractor treat for her if she did. The comforting thrum of the diesel motor fills the yard as John heads out and up to the field.

 

Her father and Tom now gone, Ellie begins her investigation of the loft, seeming to find every little thing fascinating. Even familiar items can become an intrigue just because they’re in out of bounds territory. She plays with the pitchfork, throwing some of the old hay out into the barn. Getting a little too near the edge she scares herself with one of her more energetic throws and decides to put it down, jumping onto a bale of hay and sitting there for a while. I can hear her humming to herself as she is looking around the dingy loft and taking it all in. Then I hear the thud of her tiny feet falling to the wooden floor once more. Growing louder as they draw slowly closer only to stop by the top of the ladder.

‘No, Ellie, please don't,’ I’m screaming. The possibility of her climbing back down again without seeing me is too unbearable to contemplate. She peers down for a moment, a moment that feels a lifetime, and then she turns slowly on her heels and begins to make her way toward my small corner.

A few steps later and there she is, staring straight at me. I have never felt so vulnerable, even compared to the storm. My fate hanging in the balance of the next and unpredictable decision that a small child is going to make. And then, there, the moment I have almost not let myself dream of arrives. She reaches forward and I feel the once familiar sensation of movement as she lifts me from my long standing resting place. Surface dust falls from me and I almost feel guilty for my desertion. She studies me closely, uncharacteristically quiet and running her small hands along my frame. I revel in the sensation of warm contact once again after all this time. She studies me some more and then she frowns. She looks toward the window and rubs her sleeve over the gathered grime, making a small hole and peering through to the field where Scarecrow is. I try to look also, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but I am no sooner poised to peek than I am suddenly whisked away as she runs over to the ladder. Lying face down on the floor she starts to lower me down by my tail. And there I am, dangling upside down in the mid-air of the barn. Not the most dignified exit, but an exit it is and I’m not about to complain. She starts to sway me to and fro and I begin to paint the air in an arc, a little wider with each swing. I am guessing, hoping, she is going to try and land me onto one of the hay bales.

‘One,’ I hear Ellie say.

Ok, it’s going to be on three, it’s always on three.

‘Two.’

I pick my spot and steady myself as we begin the final descent and...

‘Threeee!’

Yup, here we go. I feel the air pass over my wing as Ellie let’s go and I aim as best I can for the bale. A second later I feel the comfort of fresh soft straw underneath me.

‘Great shot!’ Ellie congratulates herself.

‘Hey go girl! What’s that song? “Sisters, sisters…”

She climbs down the ladder with renewed confidence and runs, straight past me? A short while passes, I wonder what could be happening and then she returns. She sits herself down on the bale beside me and in her hand is a photograph in a frame. A photograph showing Scarecrow smartly dressed in a brand new scarf with me flying proudly above him. She studies it closely for a while, her legs swinging against the side of the straw. Then suddenly casting the photo aside next to me, she lets loose a high pitch squeal and runs out of the barn. 

My heart both sings with joy and breaks with agony at seeing the image of Scarecrow and I together so long ago and the longing to be this close to him once more.

‘Tom!’ She screams as she sees him walking through the yard.

‘Hey!’ he says. 'I've just been looking for you, young scallywag.’ 

She grabs the corner of his jacket and starts to pull him toward the barn. ‘Quick!’ she says. ‘Quick!’ dragging on his coat excitedly.

‘Whoa, hold your horses madam,’ he laughs. ‘What’s got you so excited now?’

‘Quick, quick,' she keeps repeating. I want to show you something!’ 

Tom follows or rather is dragged to the barn. 

‘Look!’ she screams again, running to pick up the photograph. ‘It’s the kite in the picture. With the scarecrow, look, look!’

‘Well I never…,’ says Tom. ‘Wherever did you find that? It’s been a long while since…’ his voice trailing off as he picks me up, the sight of me still retaining some of the dried mud from that day bringing back some obvious and painful memories.

‘I found it up there, all covered in cobwebs and lonely. We have to put it back with the scarecrow, they should be together. Help me Tom, help me put it back. And mend the scarecrow, just like in the picture!’

‘Now what would your father say if he knew you’d been up there young lady?’

Ellie goes quiet, droops her lip and tries to look like she is sorry. 

‘Well, I think it might be better if I say I found this when the time comes, don’t you?’ 

Ellie squeezes her face into an impish grin and throws him a grateful hug. 

 

Mary, Tom, Ellie, I are in their cottage kitchen, the photograph and myself lying on the large table. Mary picks up the picture and runs a finger softly over it, a tear grows in her eye and she puts it back down.

‘This looks like its seen better days,’ she says, picking me up and diverting herself. ‘Look at all this muck on it. Though not as sad looking as that old scarecrow now, I have to say. He’s not faired at all well over all this time.’

‘I know,’ says Tom. ‘Whenever I’ve said about going into the field and fixing him up John’s never been keen. He says that if it’s doing any good, it will still do the same job looking bedraggled, better probably. So I let it be.’

My heart sinks at the thought of him out there alone and unattended for all this time.

‘Pleeease?’ pleads Ellie again. ‘Can we put it with the scarecrow, pleeease?'

‘Ha, ha!’ laughs Tom. ‘You have your mother’s persuasive ways alright Miss Ellie. What do you think Mary?’

‘Well, I don’t see how things could be any worse here than they are now. Perhaps it will do some good to see a little cheer in the place. Go on, help her with it I say.’

‘Hooray!’ cries Ellie, spinning round on the spot.

‘Hmmm…’ mulls Mary, casting her eye over me. 'These ribbons will need fixing up though. I'll get my sowing box to them later.’

‘Right then Ellie,’ says John, ‘we’ll find some good clothes for the scarecrow and tomorrow we’ll put them both back together again, good as new.’

‘Yippee!’ Ellie shrieks, dancing now around both Tom and Mary. 

I can hardly believe it’s really happening. I will be going back to our home-space and to my lovely Scarecrow.

 

Ellie stands on a chair next to Tom at the sink and they carefully begin the process of cleaning me. Wiping away the dust and cobwebs that have long settled on my wing. The warm water feels beautiful at it sheds away the lonely layers of time.

‘I can’t wait to tell Daddy,’ says Ellie, her small fingers sponging over my raggedy tail.

‘Well, perhaps we should keep it our little secret for tonight,’ says Tom. ‘And then we can surprise him with it tomorrow.’

They finish up and Mary takes Ellie back to the Farmhouse, or rather tries to keep up as she skips excitedly across the yard. On returning, she sits in her chair and begins sowing the new ribbons onto my tail. She sows and she sniffles, she mutters and smiles and she laughs and she sniffles some more. Carrying on until I am finally mended and placing me safely to one side. I watch her silently staring into the fire burning in the grate, her hands now resting on her lap as she smiles, cries, mutters some more, then laughs and cries all over again.

* * *

 

Back at the farm, Ellie is snuggled up against her father's shoulder as he reads her a bedtime story, plus the extra one he promised himself. He strokes her hair and makes funny voices for each of the characters while Ellie laughs. She listens and looks at all the pictures but is also bursting to tell him about the kite and their plans for the scarecrow. 

He finishes, tucks her in and kisses her goodnight. As he gets to the door and about to turn out the light, she calls out to him. ‘Da-. ‘

'Hey, sleep you,' he says. Blows her a kiss, turns the light and closes the door behind him.

* * *

 

Tom and Mary enjoy the rest of the evening reminiscing about Ellie and the memories they have of her. I listen to some of the stories I had never been able to see and she is here with us all again. They head off to bed and I remain, safe in my cosy corner. The fire throws tall flickers of light onto the wall and I watch them growing smaller and smaller till finally there are no more and darkness remains. But I'm far too excited about tomorrow for sleep.

 

Next morning, Tom is in the yard telling John of their plans.

‘No!’ says John. ‘I won’t hear of it!’ John’s reaction is passionate and uncharacteristically curt.

Tom looks taken aback.

‘I don’t want to see that kite flying over this land, do you hear?’ John continues, adamant in gesture and tone.

I can hear them. I can hear John so against it and I grow horribly certain that I will never see Scarecrow again. It is worse than not being found at all.

Tom looks from John to Ellie watching from their cottage window, her tears swelling with every word. ‘John, I’m sorry,’ placing a hand on his shoulder to console him and soften the conversation. ‘If I thought for a moment that you would be so much against it then I would have done more to dissuade Ellie. But you know how persuasive she is and how easily she can get around me.

‘I’m sorry too Tom. It’s just that Ellie so loved that silly kite and scarecrow and I don’t know if I could stand another reminder of her loss every day, it’s hard enough as it is.’

‘Surely it’s a good reminder.’ says Tom, ‘One that would show how proud of her we were for everything she brought to you and this farm. We all miss her deeply John, but now we have young Ellie to remind us, and who better to give some innocent life back into that field and this farm but her?’

They talk some more, quieter now and the words between them cannot be heard. I don’t want to hear anymore. My heart is completely broken. If I could fly by my own accord, I would, into the open fire and end this loneliness forever.

John and Tom finish their conversation. John heads off toward the mill and Tom back to the cottage, his face is sullen.

I hear the sobs of Ellie and Mary and then Tom’s slow footsteps as he enters.

‘Well, I guess that’s it then Ellie,’ he says softly, and lowering himself down to her level he wipes away the tears running down her cheeks. Then looks her tenderly in the eye. ‘Now if I were you,’ he begins, ‘I’d get that kite and fetch some clothes. We’re going to mend a scarecrow and were going to fly a kite!’

‘Whaaat!’ cries Ellie, throwing her arms around him.

‘Tom?’ Cries Mary. ‘He’s agreed Tom?’

‘Yes, Mary, he’s agreed.’ They jump and laugh and dance around together like crazy fools. Ellie comes running over, picks me up and swirls me round and round. My tail nearly knocking every ornament to the floor.

X

We are like a parade, though admittedly a small one, but with as much celebration as a carnival as we leave the cottage and head toward the field and Scarecrow. Tom and Mary walking side by side and Ellie running ahead with me in her hands, twisting me this way and that until I’m completely dizzy. So much so that I cannot even see Scarecrow as I am carried along. But he will know now I am coming, coming to be together with him at last. We grow closer to the spot where he stands and my excitement begins to turn to one of insecurity. He has not seen me in such a long while, what if he no longer feels the same? What if-? I am stopped dead in my thoughts as we arrive by his side. His clothes are threadbare, he hangs limp against his post, his straw strewn and pecked. I call his name, there is no reply. I cannot hear the sounds the others make for the state of shock I’m in. My world has stopped. How could this happen? After all you have done how could so much have deserted you? I call his name again, as tenderly as I can, looking for any sign of recognition or response. Nothing stirs in him and I cannot stop myself from weeping. 

Ellie places me on the ground next to him and I feel the warm sun soak into my wing, the first I have felt it in a long time. 

‘Hello Mr Scarecrow.’ She says, a little nervously. She has never been up to this part of the field before and I heard her telling Tom she was always a little scared of him when she looked out of her window.

He looks scary now, and nothing like his old self at all as Tom, Mary and young Ellie begin to work on him. Tom pulling straw from here, sowing straw to there. I hadn’t realised what an accomplished scarecrow maker he was. They look at the photograph Ellie has brought along, checking every detail and they set about his new clothes. I watch Ellie’s tiny hands next to me as they put Scarecrows feet gently into his new boots and I can see all of her mother shining from her as she contorts her face in concentration.

Finishing, all three stand back to admire their work.

'He looks as grand as ever,' says Mary, giving Tom a hug.

'We just need this,’ says Ellie as she pulls a new hat out of the bag, climbs the box they brought along for her to stand on and places it on his head. ‘There.’ she says, and the three of them laugh as they congratulate themselves.

 

It is good to see Scarecrow at least looking like his old self, and to the unknowing eye he is perfect in every way. But they don’t see what I can see; the life that has gone from inside him.

‘Ok.’ says Tom, ‘It's time to attach the kite. Now, this is a very special job that has to be done just right.’

‘What do you mean?’ asks Ellie.

‘Well,’ replies Tom. ‘First we have to secure the line firmly to the ground just here, so that the kite won’t be carried away with the strong winds.’

And there; the remains of my old line. My life and soul line and last physical connection to him still in the ground after all this time.

Tom casts aside the sheared remains and I feel my heart burst with pain. 'Then, and this is the important bit, we thread it up through the buttonhole of the breast pocket of his jacket before fixing it to the kite.’

‘Why?’ asks Ellie. Watching him carefully thread my line.

‘It was your mother’s idea, she said that way the kite would always be close to his heart.’

‘That’s funny!’ Ellie laughs.

‘Your mum said that they would spend their lives together. They would be like man and wife and this tied the knot. Now is there anybody present, who-'

‘Oh Tom...’ Mary says, pulling her arm through his, her eyes full of tears. ‘I swear you’re just as daft as she was. And she kisses him on his cheek.

Yes, Ellie had brought us together all that time ago and made us one in spirit also, if only she were here now too. If only many things…

‘Right Miss Ellie, now it’s your turn. You have to take the kite, run as fast as you can and then throw it high into the air. Do you think you can do that?’

‘Yes!’ says Ellie. ‘But first they must kiss if they are married.’

She stands on her box and presses my wing to Scarecrows lips, just for a moment, but I could have died right there. I shall never forget that wonderful thought and childish innocence as long as I live.

‘Ready…’ Tom and Mary begin together.

She makes a pretence of rolling up the sleeves of her bare arms.

‘Steady… and… go!’

I'm thrown in all directions at once, both physically and emotionally as her tiny feet burst into their determined sprint; the track a blur as it rushes underneath me. She raises her arm, her grip begins to loosen and I grab the air, the cheering voices fading as I climb and I'm back, back with the sun on my wing and a beat in my heart. And behold, if there isn’t a whistle and breeze of all too familiarity suddenly running under my wing; Southern Wind, warm, graceful and just as impertinent as ever. 

‘Well, well?’ And where have you been hiding for so long my red beauty?’ He remarks.

I tell him it’s been a long story, probably too long for his attention span.

He laughs and has to agree. With one more dance and admiration of my new tail, he is on his way.

 

It’s been a while since I wore this sky. I'm rusty in my turns as I watch Tom, Mary and Ellie collect their things and wave from the track as they trundle home. I am home, well, kind of, I still have to bring back Scarecrow to make it complete. I pull on my line as hard as I can, I dip and I loop as I have always done, and hope that something is his memory is stirring somewhere. I long to see that smile, but for now, the top of his new hat is what I have to settle for...

‘So what is a kite doing flying over a farm of hardly seed nor food worth stealing?’

I turn and a large raven is circling around me. Not my old friend Raven, but one I do not know.

‘Doesn’t look like you are doing such a good job judging by the ramshackle collection below,’ he taunts.

‘It was not always like that,’ I reply eventually, choking back the tears for Scarecrow. ‘This used to be one of the best farms in the land, prosperous and plenty for all, including your kind.’ I finish, regaining myself and confidence.

The raven at first sneers a little and taunts some more with ‘Caws’ of small derision. But I begin to tell him the story of Scarecrow’s philosophy and the success it once brought before the tragedy. He listens more intently and I carry on.

‘I thought that was just a legend,’ he says as I finish, ‘an old folklore told and told again at gatherings.’

‘It is no folklore, it happened and it happened here on this very spot that you and I are flying over true enough.’

‘And that the scarecrow? He looks dressed for the part, but not like he has life nor idea in him.’

‘That is Scarecrow, and he will have life in him, I swear. He will have life in him, we will help rebuild this farm and no one will go hungry again!’

The raven tips his wing and leaves with a ‘Caw!’

I don’t know whether he believed me, but I was proud to tell the story, our story. ‘So, we have become a folklore my sweet Scarecrow, you and I and your philosophy. It’s been a long time hasn’t it?’ I pull on my line again and softly call his name.

A few birds, a few more and yet more come. They bring their young and ask to hear the story. The story they were taught as legend and I proudly repeat it as long and as many times as I am asked.

XI

Three nights have passed since I was brought back to our home-space and another new day dawns. Nights that should have been wonderful, that I had so long dreamt of while inside that lonely barn without the warm hold of his arms for comfort. No matter how much I snuggle into him, or how softly I whisper of the times we have shared, no flicker of response replies. I tell him how much I love him anyway, and of all that had happened since we were parted. Not knowing how much he knew, or if he was aware of Ellie’s passing. He may have withdrawn so deeply that it is almost impossible to reach him, but while there is still an 'almost' in that sentence then reach him I will. I won't give up. I stretch, feel the early morning sun begin to warm my wing and ready myself for flight. It is strange to not see my friends Raven, Jackdaw, Crow and the others fly over me now as I look around. So many changes. I don’t know what it is going to take, but I have faith enough that there is a way to get everything back to how we; and the farm, once were. We did it once; we can do it again. I kiss my beloved and uncurl my line, letting the morning breeze lift me aloft. ‘I love you Scarecrow!’ I call back as I rise. ‘I love you.’

 

How I have missed this view and these fields, the lives in the distance that still follow the similar patterns despite the passing time. A few changes are dotted here and there, but basically the same landscape surrounds me. Except the farm; so different now, so tired and far removed from its former and glorious beauty. Windmill is trying to look his best, but I can feel the dark shadow that still hangs over him. So much to do, where to begin? I guess we start with faith, faith and hope are our only seeds and we will have to sow them well.

 

I feel a sharp pull on my line, ‘Scarecrow!’ I scream with excitement and look down to see Ellie with a broad smile on her face, the line through the grasp of her palm.

She waves up at me, I tip my wing and flutter the ribbons of my tail back for her. She begins fussing and attending to Scarecrow just as her mother used to. She would have been so proud, they both would, of each other.

I turn my attention from Ellie as I notice John leave the farmhouse. He has something in his hand; a letter.

He stops, shows it to Tom and Mary, from their reaction it is obviously not good news. What nature of unpleasantness has decided to visit now when we need so much in our favour?

Mary points to where Ellie is with Scarecrow and he begins the reluctant walk of a heavy man along the track.

‘Ellie.' he calls softly as he approaches her.

‘Daddy!’ she shrieks, running to him and taking his hand. Her excited mood in direct contrast to his own solemnity. ‘Look at the scarecrow, look at the kite!’

‘Ellie...’ her father repeats softly again, struggling to continue past her name. He lowers himself, placing his hands at her sides. He tries to smile but his eyes are now full with tears.

‘What’s wrong?’ she says, her small hand stroking his face.

‘Ellie, I’m really sorry, but I have to sell the farm. The bank wants its money and they don’t believe that I can give it to them anymore. I’m so, so sorry.’

‘No!’ she cries, ‘You can’t give it to them, the farm is ours, it’s yours, it was Mummy’s!’ She throws herself into him, hugging him as hard as she can. He can feel the tears soak into his shirt and against his skin. He holds her closely against him for a few moments, wishing he could stay that way forever before talking to her again.

‘I’m sorry Ellie, I’m so sorry,’ he repeats. ‘I’ve let you and everyone down. They are going to take the farm and nothing short of a miracle can stop them.’

My heart races and my head spins, this can't be happening? It really can’t be happening...' The sky in the distance suddenly begins to rumble. Growing louder and darker than anything I have seen and I shake with terror. Not again, please, not again, what can you possibly want from us now?

A sudden gust snatches the letter from John's hand and in a moment it is rolling across the field too fast to be retrieved. A second current quickly whirls around them. Their hair and clothes wildly dishevelled as a deeper rumble calls from above. John looks up at the intensity of the blackening draw across the sky. He remembers the day of the storm and instinctively feels poisoned with fear.

'Quickly Ellie! We must get back to the house! Run!’ he shouts, competing with the increasing drone. He takes her hand and they begin to run, but Ellie stumbles, falling to the ground. John stops and clutches her close to him, whatever the danger; this time he will be there to stand between it and the one he loves. A dark blanket eclipses the sun and the temperature drops rapidly. Not a shred of light to throw a shadow exists. Piercing winds howl from all directions and John can feel the shaking of Ellie’s fear as she holds on tightly against him. Praying she can’t feel his in return. And it begins to rain. 

I brace myself for the inevitable soaking. But the falling drops that hit against my wing are... dry? This turbulent invasion is not nature's angry and destructive storm. But a solid cloud of bird; birds of every family, creed and size. More birds than you could possibly begin to count, gathered as one. And each; carrying with them a single grain of seed. They begin to break their dense formation and swoop over the fields, each individual releasing its precious cargo. The air and ground turning gold as it cascades gently below them.

Calls, caws and almost deafening echoes of triumph resonate above, below and in the distance as each depart, their precious gift dispensed.

John and Ellie stand clutching each other speechless in the field, as do Tom and Mary in the farmyard and as am I in the air above.

 

The birds have flown, the legend had spread and touched their hearts and they wanted to be part of it. Be part of the philosophy and rebuild it again. I can no longer see below for the tears in my eyes. I feel three long hard pulls on my line, I look down to give Ellie a loop of my wing. But Ellie is in her father’s arms, still staring out at the sight before them. And there, is the wonderful and familiar smile of my beloved Scarecrow beaming back up at me….

Reviews

[KLMazon]

This is one of the most beautiful, ensnaring stories I have ever read on this site. I normally only read a few paragraphs and move along, but the imagery held me so tightly that even when my crappy laptop suddenly restarted itself, I had to come back and finish. And cry. I noticed the keen wisdom weaves throughout the story as well. This was most excellent.

[DMS_Dana]

I loved how the story was narrated. And the descriptions are well written and very vivid.