The Last Scarecrow

33 | Rainbow Dragon

 Flames spread fast through the bonfire with a thundering roar. Books and paper and kindling ignited inside the thick logs piled in the middle of the courtyard.

Marshall stood at the foot of the ladder, his hands tentatively wrapped around the iron rungs. Heat swelled from the bonfire forcing him to turn away. "Erin?" he whispered. "What's happening?"

But Erin's eyes were on the horizon. For a minute, perhaps two, she stared forlornly at the setting sun. Was this the last time she would see it? Would it ever rise again for her? And, as its lower edge sunk below the waterline, a dark shape shifted across the pale, smouldering orb.

She grabbed Marshall's arm. "There. Look."

"I can't see a thing," he replied angrily. "What is it?"

Erin stalled, unsure.

As the shape grew larger, she squinted, trying to see who or what was hurtling towards Coldharbour Farm at such a rate.

A thought occurred to her.

A crazy thought.

Justice Raventhorne.

The little blackbird had been missing for so long. Had he chosen this moment to return and save her from The Patchwork Woman and Loren, the golems and the wickermen?

Erin looked again. The approaching shape was growing far larger than any blackbird. Bigger even than an eagle or an albatross. It swooped low, rushing headfirst across the shimmering waves, before rising vertically above the battlements of Coldharbour Farm.

Erin gasped, her eyes widening with utter amazement.

"Erin?" Marshall bleated. "What is it?"

Cast against the sun, the enormous creature hung in mid-air. Feathered wings, dazzling with a thousand different colours, were spread wide, edged with golden light. Upon the creatures head, two twisted horns pointed at the sky.

At first glance, Erin decided that it was some kind of dragon. Something straight out of her brothers Dungeons & Dragons campaigns but, looking again, she saw the once-vibrant buttons on its pirate jacket, the dirty rubber-gloved hands, the cement-filled boots.

It couldn't be.

Scarecrows couldn't fly.

Could they?

Erin's heart somersaulted in her chest.

"It's Twelve," she replied, her voice almost lost in her throat. "She's here."

"That's impossible," Marshall said, moving his head around hopelessly. "She died in the fire on Boothill."

"Twelve has come to save us," Erin said. "All of us!"

"How did she get here?"

The words floated inside Erin's head before finally slipping from her lips. "She can— fly!"

Twelve descended. Her boots crunched against the cobbles. Her feathered arms glided gracefully to her sides as she strode purposefully up the hill.

Wickermen were swiftly approaching, weapons raised, fire-torches aloft.

Twelve held up a hand. "I come in peace."

The wickermen stalled, unsure what to do.

The Patchwork Woman screeched at them, knocking several aside as she tore herself away from Marshall and Erin. "What dark magic has brought you here?"

Twelve and The Patchwork Woman came face-to-face at the edge of the courtyard, just feet from the graves of Erin's parents.

"I've come for the girl," Twelve replied. "And her friend Marshall."