DARK HARVEST IS UPON US. ONE COMMUNITY, ONE LOVE, ONE STRAW.
The zeppelin’s blaring LEDs gripped Swishy’s attention. He didn’t know what a dark harvest was but sensed that it had to do with him. The boy trembled from the ominous news. He resented the zeppelin as much as the peeves. The blimp, like the curses, talked far too much.
The strange aircraft constantly drifted, melding into the fabric of the city. At times the blimp hid behind buildings, allowing itself to become an after-thought. But the zeppelin had a talent for emerging at the worst times, flaunting a nerve-searing Ruby message. Swishy wished he could forget how to read. He wished he could forget all anxiety and pain.
Dark Harvest was clearly new to the townsfolk, too, who guided their heads toward the blimp, greatly confused. Their gossip confirmed the newness of the event. But their responses were excited, eager, hopeful. All Ruby news was good news to them, good tidings, good harvest.
Ruby couldn't resist the shadows, the unknown collection of banes and blessings, the dangerous lottery that always seemed to work out for her. The more recklessly she behaved, the more the unpredictable gamut of black arts favored her. Dark Harvest was Ruby’s destiny—and therefore the city’s destiny, too.
Swishy tried to vain to shake the worries away, but a constant discord thrummed in him due to his worried friend.
All this time Swishy spent observing the blimp, Trey’s gaze was locked onto his phone. Distress clouded the Clayborne’s face as he read and re-read Ruby’s request to come to The Curseworks. Trey typed into his phone, mashed the delete button, then entered new words. Trey foot-tapped stress rhythms onto the cobblestone. For once, Swishy wanted the Timbs to shut up.
Swishy felt bad for Trey. He assumed responsibility for dragging Trey into this mess of tangled straw. He silently apologized. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Just listen to Ruby. I’ll understand.
Trey held his thumb over the power button, activating the phone's voice-to-text feature. Swishy leaned his massive head over the phone, the nerves palpably skittering over his worry-scarred rind, the anxiety spreading through him with brushfire voracity.
"Can you give us a couple of days, Ruby?"
Midnight!
"Under normal circumstances, yes. But Swishy is scared."
Why would he be scared? I fed him!
"Heart woes, Ruby, heart woes."
Oh jeez. Children are so sensitive.
"That's one of their traits, yes."
MIDNIGHT. I will give you the rest of the day.
"Okay, thank you!" Swishy glanced at a cuckoo clock in a shop window: noon. Only 12 hours to go.
And Trey...I want to remind you by midnight, I mean MIDNIGHT…the card, the spell. And you don't want to know what happens when its mandate is transgressed. Midnight is not just a simple order—it's a deal you made with a witch. Got it?
"I always get it, don’t I?"
You do! You're the most reliable! But MIDNIGHT. I mean it. The shadows mean it, too. It's out of my hands now. Meet me at The Last Straw. See you soon.
Broom emoji. Cauldron emoji. Crescent moon. And a drop of blood.
Swishy shook his head, rustling nervously. "There's a boss fight coming."
"That’s a strong possibility but let’s work toward positivity. Manifest, young Swishy. Manifest."
"Ruby is so obsessed with my heart. I don’t get it. You guys have them too."
"Not like yours."
"Is mine that special? Or are human hearts that useless?"
"Yes to both, my guy, yes to both..."
Swishy hung his head.
"But I have a plan!" Trey shot a finger into the air. His smile was grand and hopeful.
"Do you?"
"Sure, let me cook something up. My mind is full of gems." He playfully pointed to his head but Swishy’s wasn’t convinced.
"There’s only 12 hours left, okay."
"12? Oh Swish, that's plenty." Trey patted Swishy on the back, the pure flesh-to-straw contact revealing the shape of Trey's hopes.
Swishy emphatically nodded. Trust in Trey. Trust is the way.
(...)
LOVE, MONEY, FEATHERS—the plan, the structure, the pre-determined order of operations for Swishy and Trey's scheme.
They went home for a brief rest, private planning. The snitchtalons still ticked by the window only for Trey to grumpily aim a laser pointer out the window.
Swishy and Trey had decided upon a new course of action, a fresh plot to protect themselves from the MIDNIGHT spell which Ruby used to strong-arm their presence in the Curseworks. Ruby's domain hung above them, the root-broken ground raising it into the cloud-tapper heights, a dark fortress casting shadows across the land. But in the face of Rubella Castór's magic, the boys now had a plan.
"I got some Clayhearth things for you!" Trey said.
"More gifts? I like gifts."
"Good. Now coatrack for me."
Swishy outstretched his arms as Trey updated the boy's outfit with Clayhearth accents: a golden necklace, a gold-beaded bracelet (fun ones with barrels and pumpkins and sacks and shovelheads), golden buttons for the black parka, gold-woven string for the hood-pulls. He then presented Swishy with the finishing touch, a shoebox.
Swishy opened the box and pulled out a pair of murder black Timberlands.
"This will go nice. Black and gold is the move."
"Do you think they'll like it?"
"They'll love it. And when they fall to your feet, you'll dodge contact with them. Because who are they, simple humans, to besmirch your purity."
"Besmirch?"
"That's right, besmirch."
"So don’t get the shoes dirty?"
"More or less. Great use of your context clues."
"I'm a good student, Trey."
"And today, you'll become much more than that."
Trey drew a card and held it to the sun-blasted window. The edges of the gold lettering diffused in the light, becoming invisible, but Swishy's soul clung to the influence of the mighty, five-lettered form of DEITY.
The card dissolved into white-gold glitter that showered Swishy and infiltrated the splits in his straw. The concept revealed itself to Swishy’s soul, and he loved where this was going. He began to feel like he could defend his heart. The town praised him for giving his heart, for sacrificing himself for the twisted roots of The Curseworks. The locals loved that Swishy was more a tool than a god. He wasn't a real heart, only a magic seed, a means to prosperity.
Swishy aimed to remind people that they needed him. They worshipped him—not Ruby. He was the god, and she was his priestess. He rehearsed these emotions—feeling, accepting, embodying them to a small extent—maybe a large one.
(…)
The pair returned to the plaza. Early afternoon, 3 PM, a whole nine hours before the Ruby meet. A commercial bustle filled the plaza. Swishy was excited about his divine appearance—his audience was waiting.
"Nervous?" Trey asked.
"Always."
"Godly?"
"Today, yes."
"Cool, bro. Show time."
Swishy steadily approached the fountain and stepped onto its stone seating. He turned his bulbous pumpkin head, awaiting the levels of attention—he was famous, after all.
Children noticed him first. The kids tugged at their parents, screaming and gasping and bursting into their own T-poses. And that was the cue: Swishy flung his arms into his cross-like form, the thick noise serving as the first public instance of Swish-speak: "STRAW!" he declared.
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And the rest of the necks—of people inspecting produce, walking about the plaza, counting ching, popping Earl's gold-straw rolls into their mouths—whipped towards their Swish-master's first public words. They'd begun their days with errands and casual greetings of Everybody eats, and unexpectedly happened upon the voice of God. The chorus of Straw is the cure! Straw is the way! began at first as murmurs and steadily rose into a crescendo as their benefactor appeared before them.
Everyone waited for the next words from Swishy, but there were none. Besides, the cosmic favor of his single word had cranked their collective blood pressure into geyser territory.
Trey stepped forward, careful not to block anyone's view of Swishy. He, too, made a slight switch-up to his wardrobe, wearing his usual winter clothes with the addition of his gold jewelry: a couple of gold rings, a golden rope chain, and golden pumpkin studs in his ears. The Swish disciple has to come correct! he told Swishy.
"Swish-God came here today to bless you all with feats! Our Lord in Straw says he's in the spirit of sharing."
Trey gestured towards Swishy, who then nodded his head.
The townsfolk widened their eyes and lurched forward. Products were returned to the crates. Bags were set on the ground. Showtime—they were more than ready. Even the moped delivery kids had parked in the street. A couple of farmer's trucks dead-stopped in the road as well, throwing on the hazards, awaiting glory.
They'd devised several feats, all of which Swishy came up with—his body, his magic, after all.
Trey fished into his backpack—what he called Swishy's Bag of Tricks. The crowd curiously mumbled. The scarecrow watched Trey work, studying the eye-contact his friend fed the crowd. The Clayborne scanned from left to right and right to left, commanding their gazes, hypnotizing them in a spell of steadfastly increasing interest. Finally, he drew his hand out of the bag, lifting a golden dagger toward the sky, its blade tip obscured by divine light. The Clayhearth gold was unmistakable: Swishy remembered everything Trey told him about the craftsmanship and care and sheer elegance of their wares.
Swishy stared from the dagger to Trey, and from Trey to the dagger, wondering what came next. All Trey previously said was that they'd become a performing duo. Swishy simply had to follow his lead.
Trey took slow, deliberate steps towards Swishy—who smothered the impulse to hug his brother. Hi Trey, he imperceptibly swished, What game are we playing today?—
Stab! Right through the stomach. Swishy smiled, knowing what to do. He'd seen this plenty of times in games. From the contact with Trey, he read the entire script of the ruse to come. The boy bent over the dagger, swishing in desperation, really selling his "death" as Trey twisted the knife and evilly smirked at the audience.
Some of the worshippers were about to rush towards them, a mob beating awaiting Trey—but Swishy held his hand out. Stop! The message was clear, the boy's strength and vitality apparent. The audience stopped themselves, trembling, placing their faith and trust in the mythic Swish-god.
Swishy backed away from the dagger, removing himself from his friend's theatrical betrayal, exposing a gaping hole in his stomach—a hole which began to heal, his soul grasping at each bit of errant straw and weaving them right back into place.
Everyone gasped and cheered and clapped. The children were rapt, their mouths agape as they sat on the shoulders of their parents. And the adults themselves had grateful expressions, declaring that Everybody eats, that Gold-straw is forever, that Swishy is the savior, Swishy has secured the growth and health of future-upon-future-upon-future generations.
Trey placed his hand on Swishy's shoulder, knowingly smiling, and Swishy stared back into his friend's eyes, his soul-blues blooming into the shape of sunflowers. The scarecrow inherently knew that deception was technically wrong, technically at least, because how could something so wrong feel like this much fun?
The big schemer—Trey—and the schemer in training—Swishy—persisted in their performance now that they'd acquired everyone's undivided and profound attention. The souls of the plaza dead-locked onto the pair. Swishy flowingly gestured towards his "bag of tricks" from which Trey then produced a fire poker, golden of course.
A performance pattern was established then: Trey produced a weapon, "destroying" Swishy, only for the boy to heal in real-time. Every time Trey scorched him with the hot poker or tore him asunder with a golden rake (wow, how'd he fit that in the bag?), only for his scattered straw to fly back into the whole, recognizable form of his scarecrow self. Destruction, then reconstruction, each subsequent healing reinforcing the witnesses' belief in a messiah, in a boy-shaped piece of heaven on Cearth.
Swishy lay on the ground with his arms outstretched, more snow-angel than scarecrow, as Trey violently pronged him from head to ankle—careful to avoid scratching the creaseless black Timbs.
When the damage tricks were spent, Trey produced a bag of needles—all of which were tossed into Swishy's pumpkin head. The boy swallowed each one and shook his head in all directions, proving that they weren't just laid inside his gourd. All gone, purely disappeared. Swishy then picked through his own body, reaching into his arms, his neck, and his torso, picking the needles out of his haystack self. Not even Trey knew how the scarecrow did it. And when he asked Swishy just told him, You know better than to question a mage.
And Trey simply laughed, carefully reaching out to re-bag the sharps so as not to prick himself.
After excavating the swallowed needles, Trey took a bow—a subtle trick to hide beneath his cape and augment Swishy’s attention. As the scarecrow absorbed the brunt of the praise and applause, Trey waited for the noise to die down before rising again.
Swishy walked over to Trey, slowly, deliberately, each step stealing the breaths of the crowd. He bent into Trey's ear and pretended to whisper. Trey's eyes grew wide in response. He contained himself, even whispered a breathy Yes, Swishy, I got you, before addressing the crowd with a straightened back, the dignified stance of one who'd freshly received the piping hot word of God. "LOVE!"
And everyone went wild. They cried, they prayed, they prostrated, they laid food at Swishy's feet, they begged for forgiveness and grace and healing and a whole host of other things that Swishy couldn't offer to the people, let alone himself. But he played along, head held high, gazing at the circling snitchtalons. The birds sneered at Swishy and Swishy sneered back. Swishy maintained his regal T, concentrating, admiring the way the souls of the plaza harmonized into an undulating wave.
They poised themselves to air-nap the followers as Swishy overheard their complaints: We don't have enough claws for this much stupid!
The snitchtalons acknowledged the directive to serve Swishy, to watch and protect him, but they couldn't help their envy. Their closeness to Ruby had them gassed up, used to the number one spot, but nothing they provided could outdo Swishy's magic. The gratefulness of having a body instead of a wind mass had long ago worn away. The snitchtalons, as anyone else in Straw City, wanted more. But the winged life, they'd come to realize through Swishy's arrival, was another form of a dead-end.
The snitchtalons were nothing but Ruby's pets, her trained animals, and were never considered as real humans. They wore buttons and jewels and tailored fabrics. Swishy dressed well, too—but cuter.
They glared, vibrating in open resentment of Swishy. They spewed their horrendous fantasies at the boy.
Rags to riches? Pfft. Rags to ditches! You hear me, you glorified weed? Don’t get uppity because of some magic straw talk. Scarecrows shouldn’t even walk among us! They don’t even stand—they’re attached to the ground by stakes! We’ll find you a nice stake, sharp and special. Then we’ll run it through you! You’ll be like any other weatherworn scarecrow. Abandoned. Inert. And most importantly: impaled.
But Swishy focused on performing his street faire of trickery. The pair lightened the production, halting the suite of ostentatious Swish-kill in favor of traditional circus tricks. Trey juggled a half-dozen Straw Glizzies into the air—no condiments of course—and began chunking them one by one in high-trajectory arcs toward Swishy.
The scarecrow caught them in his mouth and disposed of them, one by one by one until all six were properly gone and 'digested'.
"MONEY!" Trey declared. "A gift of CHING for the city's gracious son."
The strawpyrus notes flew in the air, floating on the wind in a slow descent. Every face lifted toward the browned canopy of care. Even though Swishy got everything free within the city, ching was among the most important possessions to the Straw City locals—so it was worth it to ask them for it.
Swishy decided to reward his patrons. He tapped a finger to the ground and a gold-straw basket sprang up—for collections.
The frenzied throwing intensified.
The snitchtalons had had enough. The first of them soared into the ching notes and snatched a clawful from the sky. And several others followed suit, bearing their dark souls to Swishy. They wanted love. They wanted money. They wanted much more than to bid for their Ruby-allotted scrap of freedom. We didn't spend years in the wind for you to take our place! You can't have it! Nothing, you will get nothing!
A group of them landed upon the money scraps, stomping on them, a ground-floor tantrum from the winged and supposedly regal shadowclaws.
Swishy didn't react. Trey didn't react. And the town didn't know how to react as these birds had lost composure.
Nice, nice, Swishy mused. It's time...
"Swishy is speaking!" Trey declared. As the citizens gave him his attention, he exchanged glances with the boy, pretending to convene though their script was already determined. Swishy picked a feather out of his shadowclaw collar and tossed it into the sky, setting it upon the wind, allowing it to descend in graceful, swinging arms. A mesmerized crowd. A hypnotized one.
"FEATHERS! Swish-God wants feathers. See his collar? Isn't it cute? Let's make our young master happy, yea?"
Swishy's eyes molded into ethereal and voluminous feathers (lovely quill-tips which much of the followers later tattooed upon their bodies).
The eyes of the plaza, of the Swish disciples, became cracked and bloodshot in a shared, spiritual frenzy.
The townsfolk closed rank, a wall of bodies condensing upon the money-killing snitchtalons.
The birds launched themselves upwards but Bristles, the pumpkin vendor turned world-class athlete, snatched the sugar-wraith out of the sky. He gripped it by the talons, his hand cut and bleeding. The other snitchtalons pecked at Bristles but he shielded himself with his free arm, dodging and ducking. Nothing could loosen his grip. Immense and layered muscles tensed within his forearms. His beastly physique proved overwhelming. The captured sugar-wraith uselessly flailed in its crumpled little vest.
And the townsfolk lunged for the remaining birds—all of which dodged but witnessed their brethren thrash in Bristles' determined grip.
"SUBMIT TO THINE LORD! CACAW!"
The bird-soul in Bristles was strong. It war-cried loudly for revenge. It didn't know the plot but sensed the path back home to its body. With his free hand, he tore off the snitchtalon's vest. And then, hungrily, he snatched out a handful of feathers. The bird's pupils shrank in fear as it stared in panicked disbelief at the sudden bald spot on its chest.
"Feathers, my lord." Bristles offered the feathers to Swishy, holding them out like an offering of chips.
Swishy grabbed the feathers, inspecting them curiously. The townsfolk tracked their savior, hoping to have pleased him.
The scarecrow took deliberate steps up to Bristles' prey. He stood over the snitchtalon, staring for a moment, letting the fear sink in. Then he bent down and replaced the feathers over the bird's bald spot.
"Is this not to your liking?" Bristles was panicked, desperate to please.
“You did well,” Trey smiled, “Now watch the Swish-God work."
Swishy reached for the bird and lifted it. No longer were there snide comments or overt threats. The moments of CACAW were over. The bird—the sugar-wraith inside at least—could only muster weak little coos. The snitchtalon knew what came next, a dark knowledge that Swishy enjoyed.
He shoved the snitchtalon into his mouth, swallowing it whole. The bird's body was gone, feathers and all. Swishy knew the work was done when the sugar-wraith soul streamed out of his mouth into a wavy line of blackness, zooming off toward The Curseworks.
But the nutrition, the offering of feathers, was divine.
Swishy's ghostly eyes swelled and swelled, spilling out of his head as overflowing ponds. The soul-blues then returned to normal size, forming into twin scarecrow shapes whose arms flowed in rhythmic up-downs. The boy's soul flapped. The boy's soul soared. And the heart inside, that mythic experiment of feeling, tightened and convulsed and shrunk. He lost heart—no—he was using it.
He endured the painful moment of self-siphoning. Everyone in the plaza knew that the meal had a purpose, that there was a feat, a Swish spell heading towards resolution. The breath and darkness of the plaza cohered around Swishy. Everyone waited, each soul coiling in anticipation and disquiet.
Poof! A black wing sprouted from his back, tiny and fragile and precious, so precious. Only one wing, though, yet he found it lovely in all ways. Swishy marveled at his fluffy outgrowth, wishing for another.
Trey smiled and then checked his phone. "6 PM—six more hours, young God."
Swishy flexed his winglet, responding with its papery rustle. "And a wing and a half to go!”