The Guardian

The guardian who watches all

The Guardian

Scarecrow is a lonely creature, being hanged there each day against the pole. He was the guardian of this field, for this was his duty in life. Some may think that one would not care, but they haven’t been strung on a pole for most of their life. Scarecrow was a mellow person, who never had complained at his job. Each day he would stare at the azure skies and golden field of corn. When it rained he silently watched the fields as the rain drenched the straw in his clothes, and the hat he wore. All of this changed one day when he saw her.

She was different then most girls of her age; quite, ignored the other children, read, and then often daydream in class. She would walk around the corn fields, but not tearing it down like the boys. This was strange for the guardian, but he never whispered a word. It was hard to keep an eye on her and the crows, for they loved to deceive and steal from other creatures who they considered lower than them. He would tell them to stay away from the golden wheat, but each time they mocked him for standing on a timber pole. He ignored the malevolent crows and continued his job.

A storm had struck again, the winds strong, shaking the scarecrow. The gust kept growing worse till the rain came flooding down on all of the creatures. The crows left the field, not wanting to be stuck in a storm. He sighed as each rain drop soaked his body, and the straw once again wet. Then he heard a scream. He pin-pointed the noise, and there clear as day was the girl. She was sprinting past each row, and then fell in the mud. The noise she made frightened Scarecrow but he saw that she got back up and then wobbled up and quickly walked. The stormy sky was deep black, with an angry presence in the air. You could practically feel the lighting on your skin, every little hair pricking against your skin. This was one of the most terrible thunderstorms this little town in Illinois has had for awhile.

Scarecrow tried to call out for her, but it was merely a whisper against the wind. He could not speak because his mouth is sewn shut. It must have been a miracle for the little girl to stop on a dime and look at him. She saw him as the beacon of light, a place to stay, and as a strong hold. She ran towards him, gasping for each chilled breath, her feet slamming against the ground much like a race horse. She reached the watcher of the fields and grappled the wooden post. She shivered as the rain struck harder and harder, chilling all the way to her bone. She jumped as lightning stuck with a hating fury. She could only hope that the storm would soon pass over.

Scarecrow was hoping for the same, for the wooden pole that held his body up was old, and he could feel it creaking with the wind. He was old and if it cracked he would soon become nothing but laying hay on the floor. Another flash of lighting followed by its angry brother thunder clashed once more, creating a booming noise so loud the whole ground shook. The girl screamed, and cried out in shock. The guardian stood there, wishing he was able to help the terrified girl.

Almost an hour later the storm was over, and the girl stood up, shaking like a newborn foal. To say she looked terrible was an understatement; the mud was caked all up her left side for when she slide, her hair was tangled, and her pants leg had a tear. She looked up at the silent watcher and whispered three words.

“Thank you Scarecrow.”

With that she left the fields, her protector watching her leave the field.