“Mm. Lyman may have … taken some liberties with his fiction,” Taavi says, glancing briefly at the scarecrow and then turning back to the road. I watch it for a while, but, thankfully, it doesn’t move. In fact, neither do the next two dozen scarecrows I see. They’re all creepy though, with sharp, pointed teeth and dark eyes.
After a while, I stop bothering to look.
That is, until I catch the eye of one that gives me a long, slow wink.
“Oh, fuck my life,” I murmur, stopping dead in the middle of the road. Taavi pauses, his body going stiff as he scents the air, and turns to look at the scarecrow in the field nearest us.
His face is painted like all the rest, but there’s something different about the way he’s hanging, like he’s weighted down in a way the others weren’t.
“He just winked at me,” I say, a cold chill sliding down my spine. “And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but … none of the scarecrows in Kansas ever wink.”
“Let’s keep going,” Taavi says, his voice dark and hard as he turns away and continues along the Yellow Brick Road, like a winking scarecrow isn’t worth a second thought. Only the tautness in his shoulders gives him away.
I glance back at the scarecrow, and the figure nods its head at me in a friendly way. Biting my lower lip, I look at Taavi and then I head toward the fence. This is my delusion, after all, and there’s just … something about the scarecrow. I can’t put my finger on it, but I need to know more.
Maybe I’m meant to help him in a way I couldn’t help my family?
That’s it, right? The psychological explanation for how I’m manifesting my trauma?
Did I ever mention that my father was a psychiatrist? Yeah, I’m used to psychoanalyzing bullshit.
I hop the fence as Taavi turns around, calling out to me as my Vans hit the dirt on the other side. Shoving golden cornstalks aside, I fight my way over to where the figure hangs from a cross. The closer I get, the worse the smell becomes, like burnt hair and melted flesh.
“Good day,” says the scarecrow, in a rather husky voice. I’m surprised by how much I like the sound of it.
“You can talk?” I ask in wonder, circling around the wooden pole as Taavi catches up to me, cursing under his breath.
“Certainly,” the figure replies, a wet sounding cough following. “But I’d be a much better conversationalist if you were to let me down.”
“Not a chance in this hell we call Oz,” Taavi snaps, reaching out to grab my arm. “We don’t know why he’s here or who put him there.”
“All of which I’d be more than happy to answer, provided you get me down from here. It’s quite tedious, being perched up here night and day to scare away the C.R.O.W.S.”
“What about the C.R.O.W.S?” Taavi asks, perking up. His German shepherd ears—which he seems to be able to shift on and off with ease, along with his tail—swivel in the figure’s direction. The scarecrow laughs, this low, husky sound that promises that maybe, under all that horrid paint on his face, that he might be a bit of a looker.
“Again, another question I’d be happy to answer as soon as my feet are on the ground.”
“You’re a harsh negotiator,” I say, planting my hands on my hips. “But it sort of feels like we have the upper hand here. Why don’t you tell us why you’re nailed to the cross like Jesus H. Christ, and we’ll let you down?”
“Jesus H. Christ?” the figure asks. “Is he a wizard as well?”
“Poor choice of reference on my part,” I correct as the figure’s painted maw curves up into a smile. “Look, just tell us why you’re up there. What’d you do? Murder somebody?”
“I tried,” he says, with a long sigh of regret. “But I failed. That’s why I’m up here.” I exchange a look with Taavi, but he’s staring at the scarecrow and not at me. “The Munchkin clan who was supposed to help me down were slaughtered by the Witch of the East.”
“The chick I just killed?” I ask, glancing over at Taavi. He nods brusquely, attention still focused on the scarecrow.
“You’re the sorceress who finally killed that bitch?” the scarecrow asks, his voice piquing with interest. “Oh, this should be fun. Let me down, so I can properly introduce myself.”
“He’s not fae, is he?” I ask Taavi, wondering if I’m making a huge mistake here. What if I let this guy down, and he turns into a man-eating horse monster? Or something worse?”
“He’s a wizard,” Taavi confirms, his face scrunching up as his lip curves up in a snarl. “A very bad wizard.”
“Oh, I’m no such thing, guardian. Now, if you’d please take me down from here, I’d be very much obliged. You have my sworn word that, for a minimum of three days, I’ll raise neither hand nor spell against you unless you raise them against me first.”
