As the Crow Flies

T. James Harris 

Sometimes, the land dies. The spirit that inhabits the ground, water and stones seems to drain away. And although things did grow here, they did so with no encouragement from either earth or sky.

The town of Greybrook sat in such a place, dead center of Chickasaw County, still on the map, but a mere ghost-town in most peoples minds.

Some of the older folks, with a taste for history, would remember that the largest Indian settlements of the state were in this county. When the pioneers came, and started claiming the land for good Christian homesteads, there was trouble from the native people. The calvary was brought in to protect the white folk, and in an attempt to manage the Indians, a plot was hatched to present them with small pox infected blankets for the winter. The red people died by the thousands. Rather then spend the man hours burying the ‘savages,’ they were burned. And those that missed the fires, were simply left for the crows.

Around the turn of the century, a railroad came. It brought people from all lands. They brought their hopes, and their fondest wishes to this place, and for a time it looked as if the land was beginning to heal. But one cold morning in January, one of the heaviest locomotives had pulled into the station, bringing much needed supplies, and mysteriously exploded. The blast shook cups off shelves a mile away, and one of the engines wheels went through the school, collapsing it, killing 56.

From that point, to present, no huge tragedy befell this community. No mass murder or loss of life occurred. The smaller tragedies were sufficient.

The Hales had come to this part of Chickasaw County, looking for a farm and a place to start a family. After twelve years, they had a son, Daniel, and a debt to the bank that loomed like a long shadow. With it, a growing sense of worry.

Emma Hale was coming home late one August afternoon, on the far side of their property. She had two bags of groceries and a plan to leave her alcoholic husband, and her bad marriage. What Emma didn’t have, was luck. Reverend Doyce, a man who was also fond of drink, chose that same afternoon to run one of the five stop signs in Greybrook. He hit Emma’s car without touching his brakes. The Reverend had died on impact, but Emma, a strong woman, did not. She managed to pull herself dazed from the wreckage. She knew her farm was just beyond this field. She could make it there, where she could reach her phone and get herself some help. But where her will was firm, her body was not. She made it about halfway through the cornfield before she collapsed beside the old scarecrow she and her son had constructed. As her vision began to fade into blackness, her last memory was that of a cackling black crow as it landed beside her. She saw that one of its eyes was white, like the the noon day sun.

The crash scene was eerie and silent now, unnoticed on a road that saw little traffic.

As if called by some terrible bell, crows came, settling and hopping on the road and in the corn. The white-eyed crow lit on the outstretched wrist of the scarecrow, as it raggedly hung in the dying light. A single red drop of blood dripped from the crow’s bill, but landed on the stiff glove of a hand. Perhaps it was a play of the breeze, or a trick of the eye, but the leather fingers seemed to curl around that single crimson drop.

Danny Hale grieved for his mother. He also grieved for himself. His protector had been snatched from his side, leaving him to the dark, moody whims of his father. Hugh Hale did not suffer softness. His heritage was one that tempered boys into steel. Danny learned to avoid being either seen or heard by his father, especially after dark, when Hugh Hale came to Danny’s room, with a twisted smile and reeking of whiskey. What happened next, the liquor washed away, from Hugh’s mind anyway. Danny just squeezed his eyes closed, and in his own fashion, disappeared.

Danny found others ways to escape his father. He was quick of wit, and nimble. Had his mother been alive, she might have enrolled him in one of the dance schools in Chicago, or Burbank, or any other place the two could have escaped to.

Danny was not allowed friends. He was to come home from school and begin the work on the farm. And when chores were completed, he was to make supper and take care of the house.

The television sat like a dusty box of nothing in the far side of the living room. Danny remembered cartoons. He remembered ball-games and movies. He missed so much of what his life had been.

He took to sleepwalking, and often found himself in the cornfields. When he awoke, he was sweaty, breathing like a bellows, and itching from the corn.

His grades began to slip. Teachers were sending notes home, requesting conferences. They were met with hostility, accusations, and Hugh eventually pulled Danny out of school, stating that his sister had come to stay with them to help the boy. She was a teacher, and could take care of his schooling. This, of course, was a lie. Hugh had no family beyond his son.

The Presence that was in the cornfield, waited and watched the farm house. Danny was a bright spot amidst all the darker souls that seemed to flow around him. Danny was a beacon of humanity and humility that amused and drew wonder from the Presence. And although it became more powerful with the child’s misery, it’s fascination grew mainly from the glowing light of the child.

After a savage beating from his father for breaking a glass, Danny found himself on the roof just outside his bedroom window. The corn was not yet over his head, and he could still see the scarecrow standing like a ragged sentinel. Odd, it seemed to be nearer to the house these days. Danny crawled down the drainpipe and fled into the great green. His father would come looking for him, eventually, to administer his ‘special punishment,’ but with a little luck, his father could be evaded until he passed out. He stopped suddenly, regarding the scarecrow.

He stared at the burlap face, with the shiny black shoe button eyes, then at the old coat and gloves. How creepy it looked, like a dead man on a stick. Yet, something seemed familiar. Summoning courage, he unfastened the last two buttons on the tattered shirt and peered at what was inside. Straw, sticks, and dust. No guts. No skin. It was just a bunch of stuffed old clothes that had belonged to his father. Still, there was something compelling about its face. Danny stood on toes, and stared with a combination of fascination and revulsion at the figure as it hung in the dark.

For weeks, the Presence fed off the anguish that Hugh inflicted on his son. Eventually, the boy would sit beside the scarecrow and tell it his worries, and of his profound hate for his father. It wasn’t until the light that was in the child’s soul was in danger of being extinguished that the Presence reacted.

Hugh’s actions had put his son in bed with bruised ribs and two fewer teeth from his smile. Danny could no longer even summon tears. Hugh had called him from the stairs, and once more from the doorway. Even after the threat of punishment, Danny could not rouse himself. For the first time since the loss of his wife, Hugh did not drag his son out of his room. Instead, he simply left by the kitchen door to start his hard day.

Danny fell back asleep. This quiet and still slumber was his salvation. He could fly in his dreams, or have tea and sandwiches with his mom. But this dream was like none he had before.

He stood in the cornfield, but there was no house, no road, only corn. It was as if the entire planet was a vast field. Beside him stood the scarecrow, only this time, there was no pole up his back, nor T-bar that held his arms out. The scarecrow turned to Danny, with those black eyes and stretched the burlap into a smile. Out of his mouth, fell pitch colored feathers. Danny knew that he should be afraid, but he laughed instead.

The sky was a shocking blue. The kind of blue he remembered in blue raspberry soda, or some of the jellybeans he used to get at Easter. There was, however, one tiny black cloud. It looked as if it were flowing toward him, and it began to spin. It spun so fast, that it made a whistle that hurt his ears. The cloud formed a funnel, and when it touched the ground, it began tearing out the corn stocks by the hundreds. He wanted to run away from the great wind, this giant finger that drew destruction on the ground. But the scarecrow was standing beside him. Danny gave up his fear, he just let it flow out of him, like the tears he couldn’t shed.

The tornado approached, and just when he felt that the thing was going to gobble him up, it went around him. It circled him and the scarecrow, forming a tiny island of corn. It was then that Danny realized what it was. He clapped his hands together and turned to the grinning scarecrow.

“Look, Mr. Sticks, look! It’s God!” The scarecrow faced him, an eerie light flashing in the button eyes. He put his rough gloved hand over Danny’s mouth, then a finger up to his burlap lips, and silenced the boy with a frown and a slow shaking head. A white-eyed crow cawed frantically, buffeted by the wind as it hovered above the two figures. The scarecrow pointed towards the horizon and the bird wheeled toward it, with a strange cackle like mocking laughter.

Danny opened his eyes. The darkness of his bedroom gave way to blue and red lights. At first, he thought the pounding he heard was the throb of his own head, but it wasn’t. Someone was trying to break down the front door. He moved slowly, until he was certain that he could take to his feet. The red and blue lights shone in the hallway, too. He called out to his father, but did not hear a reply. Glancing quickly, he saw that he was not in his room. When he reached the stairs, he realized that he couldn’t step down, as the pain in his side was worse then any he had felt before. So, he sat down on the top stair, and rested his head on the cool wood of the banister.

The door gave way in a spray of splinters. Two men in light brown uniforms filled the entry way. One was handsome, like the G.I. Joes he used to play with. The other was not.

“Danny, is that you, son?” The ugly one called up to him. He wanted to answer, but the breath he had in his was leaking out of his lungs somewhere. He just managed to nod his head.

The Handsome one came up the stairs, and shined his flashlight at the side wall, as to not blind or frighten the boy. The officer reached out to touch the child’s face, but Danny flinched away. The radio crackled on his shoulder, and he quickly spoke into it.

“Danny, we’re going to take a little ride over to see Dr. Stewart. He’s not going to give you a shot, so don’t be afraid, okay?” Danny studied his face for a moment, before whispering,

“I’m not afraid of shots.”

It was three days before Danny had overheard that his father had been killed. Hugh was attempting to fix a thrasher, when something had gone terribly wrong. The postman had been delivering a new set of bills when he faintly heard the agonizing cries from somewhere on the property. By the time he found Hugh, there wasn’t much left of him. The Sheriffs’ office believed that the damage done could not be simply attributed to the machinery. However, after seeing Danny’s condition, the Sherif felt that Hugh Hale’s demise was simply an intervention on God’s part, and closed the case.

The very nice social worker took the boy back to the farm, to collect some of his things before the bankers could come to claim the property. Danny took the clothing that didn’t have his fathers smell on it, the picture of his mother, and something he collected from the field. He had to go to the service where they put his father in the ground. He ignored the clicking tongues and shaking heads of the town folk. The one thing his father was right about: They were idiots. He glared at the coffin, wishing the box would burst into flames. Instead, he squeezed his hands so tight, that the dents his nails made on his palms would not fade for two days.

Instead of an orphanage, he had a distant relation come to claim him, and take him to the city of Woodlocke. There, he would live in a quiet neighborhood, go to school, and try to forget Iowa and his father’s heavy hands. But always, always, he carried something with him. To college, to his first job, or even to dinner with friends, somewhere in his pockets, two black shoe buttons were carefully tucked away. They tied him to Iowa, to a place where the land died, where his parents died, but he did not.