THE SNITCHTALONS FLED—they knew what time it was. And Trey did, too. Fly you stupid birds, tell your Mistress what happened!
The sun gradually began to set, its fiery red-oranges muting into a bruised purple and gold.
Off to the side—the moon, which appeared as a crescent-shaped scimitar, ushering in the coming night of plumage war.
It was time to fight back. The time to claim what was righteousness and autonomy. Trey knew it. The Swish-acolytes knew it. And Swishy knew it most of all.
There was conflict and consumption afoot, and as such young Swishy pulled an errant feather from the corner of his mouth and handed it to Trey—who then affixed it to his petite wing. Feathers had been ruffled but not Swishy's. Trey wanted him to look his godly best for the continuing performance.
The revelers, the worshippers, the awed-but-still-confused—everyone had seen Swishy eat a bird and they sought answers. They were waiting for their own meals of sense and understanding. The stage was set for Swishy to secure real devotees, ones more devoted to him than they were to Ruby.
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"Swishy," Trey prompted.
Swishy jerked his head up, confused, processing. He'd achieved something of a wing and the now-what was written all over his gourd. Even his soul began to morph into question marks—before Swishy rapidly shook his head, dispersing the gas so nobody could see his cluelessness. The boy was winging it. That's right, Trey smirked, Wing it, oh boy, now I'm a dad with the dad jokes...
All eyes were on Swishy, all souls, all hearts.
The scarecrow threw his arms outwards—and the wing too—strongly flexing, casting long shadows throughout the length of the plaza. Despite the wing’s tiny size, it created shadow several times larger than Swishy. Everyone gazed upon the shadow, captivated by the vision that Swishy had for himself.
As the moonlight beamed and the feathers rained down, Trey closed his eyes, immersing himself. There was no help to offer Swishy now, no card-play assistance to render. All the useful cards such as DECEIT, MANIPULATION, and HYPNOSIS belonged to Ruby's deck. Ruby was a black mage through and through, and Trey was only skilled in the inflexible trappings of honesty, of straightforward light.
"This is who I am," Swishy began. "This wing (he flexed it). This heart (he reached inside and squeezed—a gesture so strong everyone must've felt it—or Trey did, his chest contracting and aching and feeling Swishy's desperate, gripping digits).
"This is how I grow things. And this is why you love me."
The plaza observed the candor with restrained intensity. Their god was sharing. Their god was opening a verbal bible and caressed their souls in the word. Each set of eyes produced twin rivers of saline sorrow. The people traversed Swishy’s inner abyss with solemnity. He'd given up his wings. He'd given his heart. And he was prepared to give those things again.
The zeppelin reappeared from behind a distant clock tower (6:30 PM), its electronic marquee scrolling through the Ruby messages in its cold rotation: STRAW IS THE CURE...STRAW IS THE WAY...DARK HARVEST...ONE COMMUNITY...ONE LOVE...ONE STRAW...PLANT A SWISHY, SAVE A SOUL...
Trey noticed Swishy's chest radiating in a glittery gold, the HEART lettering from the previously absorbed flashcard working its way throughout the scarecrow. He was unsure of Swishy's mind, unsure of how his consciousness functioned within that strange, thrown-together vessel. What Trey knew was that boy had a lot inside him, a fistful of somethings to get off his chest.
"You guys gave me this heart. You grew it for me. You cared for me and played with me and gave me good things to eat. You guys even fed Trey—who deserves nothing (Trey eyerolled as he felt the ethereal mirth radiating from Swishy)—and now I have a heart. I don't know its worth. I just know it does things. It feels things. It makes me want to be here even though I didn't ask for this. But Ruby...she wants for herself. And some of you...you guys want me to surrender it, too, right?
"Plant a Swishy, save a soul? Before Straw City takes my second heart, I have one question: Whose soul are you saving? What did you guys celebrate when you rebuilt your markets and fertilized your fields and used my heart as fuel for your gold-straw rolls and dark-jam? I want to know. I need to know.
"I'm only a scarecrow in the dark—I was at least. Now I'm here. Please, explain yourselves. Tell me what you want. Swishy listens. Swishy promises to understand."
The townsfolk collectively broke down, their knees hitting the ground, their heads collapsing into their hands. The shame had crumpled them. They'd all reveled, they'd all celebrated, and they'd all heedlessly used Swishy.
Trey himself had been skewered with guilt. He imagined himself on a wooden stake, scarecrow'd and immobile, yet being showered with love and gifts, trite offerings when compared to the value of his freedom. He'd brought Swishy to Ruby, unknowing of the consequences. He never expected to encounter a valid soul, a golem that'd transcend into the human realm of feeling. In weeks, Swishy became a son-brother-friend in one hay bale of a package. And he gave him away—he helped Ruby hustle Swishy out of a heart.
The shame, the shame...But Trey stood tall and wore his bravest face. The show must go on, or so folks like to say. Although the show was no simple matter—this was Swishy's life. The scarecrow possessed a real life, one which he desperately claimed.
Swishy gently rustled, whispering to Trey. "Hey, they're crying? What do I say next? Trey, are you listening? Trey, Trey..."
Trey had withered from within. His soul shrank and flew into remote crevices, hiding from the dripping shame that so began to flood and sour his being. The plaza's tears, Swishy's impassioned swishes, all sounded to Trey like water rushing over him. He sank inside himself and reflected on where it'd all gone wrong...
When Ruby first told him of the animate scarecrow, Trey thought it'd be cute, he thought it'd be fun. He'd grown somewhat used to curses. He figured it was just some marionette business and threw himself fully into the fashion arts, outfitting a scarecrow in modernized drip. He was playing house, a grown man indulging in some doll play. Some light work; some everyday fun.
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Yeah right...
Puppetry was his expectation, an animate husk and nothing more. But the reality(?): a real soul.
Trey considered the lead-up to the Swish-rising ritual: the way the shadowclaws maneuvered in the night, carrying straw bundles and a Jack-O-Lantern outside the city; the howling darkness that ensued the morning of the ritual, Trey at home in staring out the window, watching a dark lightning tear across the sun; the fact that Ruby, somehow, could perform an altar transaction from miles and miles away; and the cost(!)—what did Ruby spend to activate the wondrous, endlessly potent entity known as Swishy.
He'd considered these things for the very first time. Each additional line item nail-gunned him with shame.
How careless of me. How stupid, stupid, stupid...
Perhaps this was a case of right place, wrong time. Or maybe the right time. Maybe Trey needed to be in Straw City to combat the altar play, the soul play. He'd moved incorrectly and underestimated the living, breathing mania known as Rubella Castór. Money, opportunity, fate—something brought him here. Ain't nothing more creative than destiny, his family commonly said, But handle it anyway. It's not like you have a choice!
Destiny in a nutshell: no choice, just your (reluctant) attendance.
Alright sad boy, get your head back in the game...
As Trey collected himself, the scarecrow scanned their tearful, needy audience in series of hasty left-right-left-rights, scrambling for a suitable move.
Swishy thought fast, he'd thought swiftly. Trey had returned from meditation to the sudden awareness of Swishy performing a ritual.
The scarecrow went around the plaza to each sorrowful, kneeling person, pulling loose straw from his chest and handing it out. Trey hadn't taught Swishy the magic of straw-chews, but they were common practice, and a safe one as far as they knew, so the exchange brightened everyone's spirits. The townsfolk placed the chew into their mouths, sucking and chewing, their worries and shame pacified, their souls and hearts fortified. Everyone remained kneeling but they'd gathered themselves emotionally. The people longed to serve. Trey as well.
"It's okay to cry," Swishy said, copying a canned line from Altruistic Altar, "When you let it go, life can flow." Swishy flinched a little, discomforted by the strong emotions, but he moved through all motions of comfort he'd learned from the video game cutscenes. He maintained an easy gait, shoulder-rubbing the kneeled worshippers, before approaching Trey with those same steady clomp-clomping steps.
He stood before his friend, staring up with a vacant expression. Trey could only see a little light inside that gourd. He could see Swishy was tired, a good deal consumed, yet the young god offered his hand. Trey took it, caressing the woven fingers.
"There's a lot inside," Swishy announced to the plaza, enticing everyone to raise their heads. "A lot I don't know what to do with. But there's a legendary thing you can help me with, one that can heal us...Trey will tell you."
What? Trey found himself wiping his tears with his sleeve—but also hiding his expression, correcting himself for it was now his time to wing it. The eyes were upon him. Suddenly dry, lucid, reasonable. These people had a way of letting folks know that Swishy was God and that Trey wasn't even a rung on the ladder—he was the cracked wood floor.
"Wings! Yeah, wings...ya'll saw it...Swish-God grew his wing back, but just partially. With enough feathers he can—"
"FLY!" Swishy jumped and flapped and everyone else shot up as well, jumping and flapping, rejoicing, a responsive cult conjoined by the Straw City spirit of opportunism.
"Yes, Swishy has the spirit of a shadowclaw. But the altar changed him. Molded him. He survived years and years as a scarecrow in the dark. And that's something Ruby did. That we did. We allowed his bird-soul to live in darkness and he's come upon us now, walking seed, a harvesting boon—yet he's walking. We insult THE ONE WHO FLIES by making him exist among us. First, we've gotta revive his wings—"
"They're great wings, too!" Swishy continued, "The largest wings. Picture what my real wings look like...God wings—because I am a God—"
"Yes, Swishy," Trey cut his eyes at the scarecrow, who was having too much fun as straw-born messiah—continuing to lead the plaza in noisy flap-hops. Funnily enough, there were human cacaws in the crowd too, anonymous bird-souls infused into the kidnapped human bodies. They wanted Swishy to have wings. And they wanted theirs back, too...That's it! "And when Swishy gets his wings, you too can acquire them. True believers become Swishy's Wings, chosen ones who will closely defend and carry out the Lord's will."
Swishy stopped his bird-dance. He sensed the end of winging-it time. "Any questions?"
"We dare not question thee, Lord Swishy! Thou shalt personally run through ANYONE with gall enough to contradict thy will." Bristles. It could be none other. The bird-soul was emboldened. The bird-soul was full of rage. Trey shuddered when imagining the type of shadowclaw Bristles was—a bird berserker unleashed in the wild. Him? A bird of prey? Oh God...
"Thank you," Trey held his hand out to calm the smoldering believer. "But Swishy is genuinely asking. He is a young God, completely open to hearing your needs."
"May I?" Bristles asked, eyes wide and inquisitive. The sudden gearshift from wrath to wonder scared Trey.
"Yeah!" Swishy took over. Trey was relieved but also impressed that Swishy sensed his fear. He's been doing that a lot lately..."Go ahead!"
"What if our true self wast not shadowclaw?"
"You mean like another bird species?" Trey cut in, more a statement than a question.
"Absolutely!"
"There are other birds?" Swishy head-tilted.
"Yeah," Trey said. "Like pigeons, bleh."
"And Wrathravens." Bristles said.
"So you want to become a wrathraven?" Trey said.
"Yes.” Bristles spoke this confidently without flourish or spirited fanfare. He made it a point to be serious.
"Is a wrathraven a different kind of shadowclaw?” Swishy asked.
"Yes…” Trey fearfully confirmed. “The demonic version."
"What is demonic?" Swishy asked.
"Oh Swishy, my Lord! So pure! Untouched by this harsh, VIOLENT world. " Bristles was overcome with gleeful devotion. Trey was unamused, though. He realized then that Ruby was the least of their problems.
"So..." Trey gulped down the nerves. "If your true self was a wrathraven, hypothetically—"
"Literally." Bristles interrupted.
"Okay, sure. Then that means that Ruby also has control over a wrathraven—"
"Wrathravens, plural. There's no type of black bird that doesn't runneth in a murder. Please, Trey, educate thyself before deigning to serve Lord Swishy."
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Trey thought the words; he mouthed them; he tapped the rhythms with his nervous foot.
"I didn't know that Swishy was a wrathraven," Bristles went on. "That's amazing news! Nothing less for my God."
"So you want to ascend to wrathraven-dom?" Trey asked.
"Tis more accurate to say returneth to a wrathraven. But the answer is yes—I wish for ascension."
"Swishy?" Trey looked at the scarecrow.
"With enough feathers," Swishy answered, "We can do anything!"
"Splendid!" Bristles said.
"Of course..." Trey said, "We only have to capture them..."
"Chin up, Trey!" Bristles flashed a million-dollar smile. His eyes were glossy with pious tears. "With God on our side, we'll tear the wings off any enemy...and take them for ourselves—CACAW!"
Trey stared up at the clock tower: 7PM.
Swishy had followed his gaze and seamlessly grasped the cue. "Okay, everyone! Time flies! And if you want to fly too, bring some feathers—"
"Before midnight!" Trey added, scurrying around the plaza with a burlap sack, scooping up the megatons of ching and feathers littering the floor.
"Yes, midnight!"
"Meet us at The Last Straw!" Trey tied off the back and hoisted it over his shoulder and jogged off.
"Bring your feathers!" Swishy hurried after Trey. "And bring also snacks, Swish-god loves gold-straw goodies!"
("SWISHY!" Trey hissed.")
("What? You like them, too.")
And Swish-God and the Trey disciple took off. The faithful left the plaza as well, hurrying home to scrounge for plumage. Bristles alone lingered behind, his inner wrathraven scanning the night sky, glaring rapiers through the wings of every snitchtalon he saw.