"Marina Fitch - The Scarecrow's Bride" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fitch Marina)

thrill fanned through me.
Emma slipped her arm through Thomas’, and, leaning into his stocky frame,
steered him toward the door. “We had best be off,” she said, “or we shall be forced
to wait out the storm. Look after your husband, Chloe Scarecrow.”
The door banged shut behind them. Draped over a chair, the blue jacket
seemed suddenly shabby.
****
Through the long winter nights I sewed, fashioning the scarecrow’s head from
a bag of cloth. With beet juice, I applied a mouth below the brown button eyes. I
combed the dark wool, stitching it along the crown so that it hung in waves across
the forehead. I embroidered a nose with pale thread. “A handsome man, my
husband,” I told myself as the needle wove in and out of the cloth.
I imagined my husband. With broad shoulders and thick, strong hands, he
stood a full head taller than I. A sailor, he promised to take me away from this
cottage. He promised to take me to the sea. We would build a life for ourselves far
from people who saw me as a poor lame thing. And no one would call me Mrs.
Scarecrow again.
His lips would burn against mine. His hands would caress the slope of my
back, grasping my buttocks as he pulled me closer still. Then his fingers would glide
along the backs of my thighs, stroking and kneading the whole and the useless leg.
And he would not turn away.
“Chloe,” he would say, and only that.
I made my husband a heart of red cotton embroidered with my name so that
he would love only me.
****
In early spring, when the breeze ruffled the tender shoots of corn and wheat,
Thomas Halpern and Joseph Dunne strode across the field and pulled the thing from
the pole. The old scarecrow fell to the ground in a swirl of tatters. The two men
stepped over it and hoisted the new scarecrow into place. The new one was stouter
than the last; I hoped it would take the wind longer to rob it of its form. Nor would it
ever bow its head to the wind, not with the ash wand I had inserted in its neck.
From my garden, I watched the men. Thomas glanced over his shoulder at
me. Joseph rose from a crouch, the remains of the old scarecrow cradled in his long,
twig-thin arms. A frown of concentration dulled his hatchet-like features. He nudged
Thomas and the two of them walked across the field to join me. “Are you ready,
Mrs. Scarecrow?” Joseph said.
I nodded. In the field, the new scarecrow stood tall against the afternoon sky.
Joseph smiled patronizingly. “You had best fetch a shawl. It will be cold when
we bring you home.”
“I’ll fetch it,” Thomas said.
 “A black one if she has it,” Joseph said, laying the rags in the back of the cart.
“Out of respect.”
We rode to the village in silence. As we clattered between the houses,
everyone fell in step behind us and followed us to the green. There, a large stack of
wood waited. I glanced at the heap of straw and tattered cloth in the back of the cart.
Mollie Scarecrow had mourned each scarecrow, wringing her hands and wailing over
their crumpled bodies. I felt nothing for this bundle of scrap.
Joseph halted the cart. He and Thomas dismounted, then lifted me from the
seat. People pressed against me, offering condolences and patting my shoulder.
Mother approached but turned away when her gaze met mine. I never saw Father.