Alden's Crows

The scarecrow stood at the eastern edge of the lower field, where the earth gave up being soft. It had been there longer than anyone living could remember. The post was oak, darkened by years of weather, sunk deep enough that frost never lifted it. The body was a sack once filled with chaff, now slack and bowed, its weight pulling against the nails. Its coat had been a man’s coat at some point, brown wool rubbed to a napless silk by wind and rain. The hat had no crown left, only a rim, tilted and uneven. Birds did not settle on it. They passed over, or broke their flight short.

Children left corn for it.

They did not speak of it, and they did not ask permission. The corn appeared in small measures, never abundant. A cob laid crosswise at the foot of the post. A handful of kernels cupped in paper. Once, a child left a twist of dried stalks tied with red thread. Mothers noticed and said nothing. Fathers noticed and turned their eyes away.

The practice had no name. It was not spoken of in church. It was not mentioned at table. When asked, children said they had forgotten why they did it. Or they kept silent, which amounted to the same thing.

The fields held.

In spring the wheat rose evenly, row upon row without gap or blight. In summer the corn stood straight, leaves clean and unmarked. Birds took their share but never too much. The scarecrow leaned and watched, its shadow shifting with the sun.

When Father Alden arrived, he noticed it on his first walk beyond the rectory gate. He had come from the south, from a town where the church doors stayed open even at night. He was young enough that his hair still shone, and he walked with a sense of purpose. He carried a book under his arm and read while walking.

He stopped before the scarecrow.

He saw the corn.

He bent and picked up a cob. It was dry, last year’s. He turned it in his hand, feeling its lightness. He looked at the post, at the sack face stitched with black thread in the suggestion of eyes. His mouth tightened.

That evening he asked Mrs. Halloway, who cleaned the church and rang the bell, about the offerings.

She said she did not know what he meant.

He described them.

She said children left things all over. Children were careless by nature.

He said it was not carelessness if it happened in the same place.

She said children liked routines.

He thanked her and closed the matter.

The repetition irritated him more than he expected, and his inability to ignore it troubled him.

The following Sunday he preached on idolatry. That night he prayed longer than usual and rose with no sense of having finished.

He spoke calmly and did not raise his voice. He said the old ways crept back when vigilance failed. He said offerings belonged to God alone. He said superstition was a form of pride, and pride the oldest sin. He did not name the scarecrow.

Some of the congregation shifted in their seats. Some stared at the floor. No one spoke.

After the service, Father Alden walked to the field and removed the corn. He carried it in his arms like firewood and took it back to the rectory, where he fed it to the chickens.

Children came again. They stood at the post and found nothing at its foot. Some turned back. Some left corn again. Father Alden watched from the rectory window and waited until night. Then he went out and took it. He delayed longer each time.

It continued until frost.

By the first frost, the scarecrow sagged. The sack split at one seam, and straw spilled out, lying pale against the dark soil. The coat hung loose. Mice nested in it. Father Alden did nothing. The cold had done its work before, and it would do so again. Rot, he believed, was how the land finished its work.

He slept poorly and woke with the sense that something had been left undone, though he could not have said what.

By winter the scarecrow had collapsed inward. The sack lay open, its stitches loose and curling. The post stood bare. Snow filled the hollow. Children stopped coming.

The birds gathered instead.

At first there were only a few crows along the fence, watching. They made noise at dawn and dusk and then left. Father Alden noticed them and thought little of it.

Then they came closer.

They settled on the church roof and lined the eaves. They filled the yew tree beside the door.

Their noise grew thick and constant. It gathered and broke apart, a clatter of black throats striking the air.

One crow kept to the wall and made no sound at all.

Droppings streaked the stone. The steps became slick. The bell rope grew spotted. Mrs. Halloway stopped ringing it with bare hands.

On Sunday, the nave filled with sound. The birds perched on the beams overhead. They fluttered when people entered. Feathers drifted down. Father Alden raised his voice to be heard.

He preached on patience.

No one stayed after.

By midwinter, the doors would not open fully. Droppings had hardened at the threshold. The smell inside was sharp and sour, clinging to the cold air. The birds did not leave when people approached. They watched.

One morning Father Alden tried to clear the doors himself. He brought a shovel and scraped and pushed. The birds surged and filled the air. He slipped and fell, striking the stone. He lay on the steps until Mrs. Halloway came and helped him up, saying nothing.

That Sunday, no one came.

Not by decree. There was no word passed and no decision made. There was simply no space left to stand.

Father Alden said mass alone. The birds watched from the beams. Their eyes were bright.

There was a short interval when snow withdrew and the birds scattered, leaving the yard unsettled and bare. In that pause, grain sprouted in the churchyard.

It came up where the ground dipped. Along the north wall. Between stones. Thin green blades at first, then thickening. Wheat and barley both. No one had sown it. The soil there was poor. Still it grew.

Children noticed.

They stood at the fence and watched the grain move in the wind. They touched it. They pulled a head free and rubbed it between their palms.

That night, offerings of corn appeared again, but not at the man of straw. At the foot of the rectory door. It was the only place left open to them.

Father Alden found it in the morning. He stood over it for a long time. He did not pick it up. He did not kick it away. He went inside and closed the door.

By summer the grain in the churchyard stood shoulder high. The birds fed there and left the fields alone. The scarecrow post in the lower field stood bare. No one went there.

Father Alden preached less. He found that he no longer searched for the right words.

He grew thin. His sermons shortened. He spoke of humility. He spoke of listening. He did not speak of offerings.

Mrs. Halloway began cleaning the rectory steps each morning. She swept around the corn. She did not move it.

One evening Father Alden stood in the doorway and watched the children place their gifts. They came in pairs, never alone. He did not stop them. He did not bless them. He watched and said nothing. Later, when the sun had gone, he went to the churchyard.

A crow called once from the wall and went silent.

He stood among the grain and faced the barren field.