The poacher stood still and silent in the dark shadow of the trees, avoiding the slanting beams of moonlight that penetrated the leafy thickness of the wood. The quiet, rippling gurgle of the river sounded softly in the background as he glanced around, suddenly alert as he sensed that something was wrong. He turned his head slowly, this way and that, catching the breeze and the smell of the earth. After years of poaching the odd salmon from the Tweed, he’d developed a strong feeling for the land and knew the breath of the wood.
A strange unease gripped him. Maybe a gamekeeper on the prowl, he told himself, although he knew instinctively that it was nothing so ordinary. Again he turned his head and tested the wind. Nothing, he thought, his eyes searching the trees. And yet he knew within himself that there was someone or something close by, watching him. Then he saw it, standing on a slight rise over to his left; a large dog with a rough, grey coat. Must be a stray, he thought, living in the wild, off rabbits and other small creatures. It stood still, watching him and as he met its cold, blue-eyed stare the friendly words that had risen to his lips, remained unspoken. A wolf! It was a wolf! He stood his ground, not daring to move and, heart thumping furiously, watched as the animal turned and loped off among the trees.
What was it about the wood, he wondered tensely, looking round searchingly. Fear still gripped him and the sight of the wolf had sent panic bubbling through his veins. Conscious of the hefty salmon he carried in a twist of rough sacking, he turned and moved stealthily through the trees towards his cottage. Treading softly and warily, he was conscious that all his senses were sharp, tense and alert; tuned into every small rustle of sound and every movement of the trees.
It was when he reached the edge of the wood that he saw him, a still figure in the shadowy moonlight; the uniformed figure of a policeman leaning casually against a tree. Relief flooded through him. A copper! Thank goodness for that! In the state he was in, he’d half expected some strange daemon or spectre of the wood. Nevertheless, he groaned inwardly, knowing that the game was up; to be caught poaching was a serious offence.
The still figure, however, made no move towards him until it dawned on him that there was something decidedly odd about the policeman. Moving closer, he reached into his coat pocket and, taking out a powerful torch, shone the beam into the man’s face. He gasped in horror and swore aloud as he saw the figure clearly — for it wasn’t a man at all, but a scarecrow dressed as a policeman; the painted turnip face and straw body looking remarkably life-like in the shadowy glimmer of the moonlight. Kids, he thought furiously, angry at the scare he’d had. Some kids must have brought it into the wood.
To his dismay, he found that he was more seriously disturbed than he’d thought. His hands were shaking violently and in a sudden fit of revulsion, he hurled the stuffed figure, in a swinging tangle of arms and legs, into the bushes and hurried towards the scatter of trees that fringed the wood. Making his way through them, he clambered over a wire fence, jumped a ditch and reached the path that led to his cottage. He strode along swiftly, anxious now to get home but it was only as he drew closer to his house that he saw them; dark figures prowling round the old barn at the back.
Moving quickly, he dumped his fish by the gate and taking a short cut through the field, crept up on them. What he couldn’t figure out was what they were after, for there was nothing in the barn worth stealing; even the old tractor didn’t work.
As he got nearer, he took the flashlight from his pocket and clicking it on, lit up the stooping, searching figures that seemed to be everywhere, poking about in all the corners.
He’d grabbed hold of the nearest one before his brain told him what his eyes had seen and it was then that he screamed in horror for it was not a man that he held in his grasp but a scarecrow. A scarecrow dressed as a cowboy with a painted bag as a face, straw arms and a body stuffed with what felt like rags. And it was alive.
“I stopped off at Norham to get the newspapers,” John MacLean said to his wife as he came into the living room, “and the Mason’s Arms is absolutely heaving with reporters.”
“Is it this scarecrow business?” Janet queried, looking up from her sewing. “They’ve even had it on TV.”
“Do you think it’s the witches’ doing?” Clara asked.
“Looks like it,” her father replied.
“What’s everyone saying?” Clara queried. “I mean, scarecrows coming to life is really something!”
“Seemingly, it all started last week during the Norham Scarecrow Festival. You know that each house makes its own scarecrow …”
“They’re marvellous,” Janet added, threading a needle carefully. “I saw them last year when I was visiting Muriel.”
“Well, at first they thought they had a practical joker in the village because one morning people woke up to find that the scarecrow in their garden wasn’t the one they’d made. They got quite angry, especially when they found that the same thing had happened all over the village. And we’re not talking about one or two scarecrows here, you know. Norham’s a big place. Anyway, there was a good deal of bad-tempered muttering as people found their own scarecrows again and got themselves sorted out.”
“And?” asked Clara curiously.
“Well, the next night, the same thing happened again, so they formed a committee to police the village at night, to see who was mucking them about.”
“And did they catch anybody?”
“Well, no, they didn’t,” her father said. “Apparently, the entire committee fell asleep on the job.”
“Fell asleep?” Mrs MacLean echoed incredulously.
Her husband nodded. “And once again all the scarecrows were sitting outside the wrong houses in the morning and,” he shrugged, “nobody could understand how all that moving around could happen without at least one of the committee waking up.”
“Well, that figures,” Clara grinned.
“Mmm, I think they came in for a good deal of stick,” her father nodded. “Of course, it’s probably the witches’ doing. I reckon they’re using the scarecrows to help them search the countryside.
“There was some talk of a tramp hanging round the place as well; an old man with grey hair. Some people blamed him but most of them thought he wouldn’t have had the strength. Then the local poacher arrived in the middle of it all, scared out of his mind. Said he’d seen a wolf down by the river and found scarecrows searching his barn. Live scarecrows! The countryside’s buzzing with it!”
“I’d much rather have scarecrows than witches!” Mrs MacLean declared.
“They’d be stupid to come here again,” Clara pointed out. “We’re wearing our firestones and we’d see them the minute they appeared.”
“I think the witches had already given the house a good going over before we even moved in,” her father said thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t worry. They’ll be concentrating on other hiding places now.”
“Good riddance,” snapped Janet MacLean, finishing her sewing and biting off the thread.
“You know, I think I’ll wear my firestone when I go to school,” Clara said thoughtfully. “If there are any witches around, I want to be able to see them.”
John MacLean looked at her thoughtfully. “You might well see witches at school,” he warned. “Your aunt taught at Netherfield, remember? You never know, she might have hidden the talisman there.”
“That’s true,” Mrs MacLean said, looking at Clara in sudden dismay. “I didn’t think of that!”