Bag over my shoulder, I turn around once more at the threshold of the crevice: this cave was my last abode. Giving it up is hard, but I don't have time to feel sad: the tide of mist crawls at my ... [+]
Born in Welland, Ontario. Lived in Australia & backpacked the world. Survived the 1979 Grenada Revolution. Spent 32 years with Edmonton Fire Rescue. First author to write Canadian firefighter crime novels. He swam with a marlin in Honduras, climbed the Great Wall of China, was accused of throwing eggs at an Aussie PM, and has won several author awards. "Night of the Strawman" is in Short Circuit #17, Short Édition's quarterly review.
I had to have it.
It waited for me in the night as I summoned courage.
Soon, it would be my trophy.
The scarecrow stood, a stark silhouette against the light from a rear window, guarding old man Oleskiw's big garden. Ragged fingers of straw poked from its sleeves, the tattered fabric fluttering like dead leaves in the faint breeze.
Crickets ratcheted a rhythm in the summer night, their chorus both soothing and unnerving. A half-moon peeked between dark clouds, its silver light casting jagged shadows over the garden.
Soft clucks came from inside the clapboard chicken coop against which I crouched—a lullaby to the tension in my chest. In a black T-shirt and dark sweats, I felt invisible—a ninja. To my right, beyond a row of willows, an unbroken field of tobacco stretched like a darker void.
My eyes locked on the partially open kitchen window—the eye of the dark house watching the garden. The old man passed the window, a hulking shadow. My stomach flinched as if he'd seen me.
Sweat trickled down my ribs, cold despite the heat. There was no turning back. Tonight, I'd prove myself to the coolest guys in town. They demanded the scarecrow, and they would have it.
"Think of it like an initiation, Davey," Tony had said that afternoon, smirking under the hood of his muscle car.
I crept toward the sunflowers, nerves sparking. Snatching it under the old man's nose would be a piece of cake. The kitchen light flicked off, plunging the garden into deeper darkness. From my position, I spied the tree stump chopping block, an ax embedded deeply in it. Earlier, we'd driven by and seen old man Oleskiw sharpening the blade with methodical precision. He didn't look like a frail grandpa. Six feet tall with a rugby player's build, he resembled a retired executioner.
"The guy's the town psycho," Aaron had said, voice serious. Their stories—hook-handed men, slashers, alien abductions—raced in my head like rats in a cage.
I drew a deep breath and duck-walked through rows of vegetables to the scarecrow. Its burlap face, unblinking bottle-cap eyes, and painted toothy grin seemed frozen in mocking glee.
My body tingled as I stood, staring it straight in the eye. I jerked it from the dirt, feeling powerful, like a warrior claiming his prize. Then I heard it—a faint clink. Crickets fell silent. A flutter of a chicken wing broke the quiet. Something intangible shifted, as if lightning were about to strike.
The backyard lit up, and I froze—a deer in headlights. A loud rattle erupted inside the house. A chair scraped the floor. The kitchen light blazed on.
I clutched the scarecrow and bolted.
Behind me, cans clattered—a trap! A string of tin cans bobbed and flipped, creating a racket. Panic rang in my head like an ear-splitting bell. I sprinted, skidding onto the street. Light from the last streetlamp caught me. My feet were blurs in the night.
The Chevy loomed ahead on the dirt road—a dark beacon. Relief surged. Tony and Aaron sat on the bumper, laughing and waving. The trunk lid was up, waiting for its prize.
"YAHOO!" I screamed, hoisting the scarecrow like an Olympic torch. Exhilaration replaced fear, charging me with power. My new friends would be impressed.
Tony climbed into the car and waved out the window. Aaron slid into the open trunk. I slowed, exhausted. The red taillights flashed on like dragon's eyes. The engine roared to life.
"GO! GO!" Aaron shouted.
I grinned—until I realized he wasn't shouting at me.
The car tore off, tires spitting stones. Their hoots and laughter echoed in the dark. Disbelief hit me like a hammer. My jaw dropped. My legs kept moving, brain clashing with reality.
They didn't stop. The taillights faded to pinpoints.
I stopped, out of breath, and turned to face the town. A few lights flicked on as curious neighbors peeked out.
From the shadows stepped a large figure. Something long and heavy hung from his arm.
I swallowed hard. The scarecrow fell from my grasp with a final tinkling of cans. Moonlight glinted off its bottle-cap eyes.
I swore I heard it cackle.