fragile scarecrow

Soft as a thistle in the field near the town, wiry as the fences wrapped around it, was Loritz the scarecrow, Loritz the has-been and never was, a waif and a stray and most damning of all, entirely unemployed.

He was there in the morning, laughing at the crows who wouldn’t have stopped to give him the time of day as they flew on towards their own very important business. Mostly you’d catch him in the afternoon scaring the guildsmen who were off to the tavern for lunch. But the time when Loritz was at his worst was in the night, hessian hands nimble as he spoke, drinking secrets from passers-by like a wine that was just too good to ever open. He was shameless. He was just like his maker, even named after them, but that was a tale for another chapter.

Travellers and busybodies loved him most of all, and asked him the questions that the townspeople had long since given up on. Why did he act like a scarecrow when he was clearly once a man? Was he ever lonely? Why wake up every day to paint on an orange mask and dark spider web eyes and laugh like the world wasn’t destined to end? It was simple enough, he told them with a smile. Why wake up at all?

Every question pulled forth another, dragging a never ending chain of lies and undiscovered truths from that petulant mouth. No one was safe from him, not really. Everyone had something they were trying to run away from in that town, and Loritz would never let them free without a chase. This was the real world, wasn’t it? Why was everyone living so much inside their own heads?

And why couldn’t he ever seem to get inside his own?

We all have secrets in Hereden. Some more tragic than others. And what Loritz was hiding behind those amber eyes? No one ever knew. 

But if he ever returns home, his warm chatter filling the fields around us once again, we may one day find out.

[Image: nature. Source: Dani Relbyn. Used with permission.]