The Crow and the Strawman by Amanda Logan A project submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF ARTS IN ENGLISH WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY Ogden, Utah April 15, 2026 Approved Sian Griffiths Name of Committee Chair Ryan Ridge Name of Committee Member Sally Shigley Name of Committee Member The Effect of the Fairy Tale Genre on Contemporary Fiction: Fairy Tale Form vs. Fairy Tale Tropes Introduction Fairy tales have existed for thousands of years, from the ancient oral tale to the written literary fairy tale to the contemporary adaptations of today. Their impressive longevity and ability to evolve to the storytelling standards of various eras demonstrate more than a desire but a need for the genre’s existence. Like many other writers across the centuries, I also have been affected by the magic of these tales, spurring the inspiration for my own story. The Crow and the Strawman is a young adult fantasy novel following a scarecrow brought to life to protect a witch’s garden, and his experiences with a thieving crow girl determined to turn his life upside down. When I first began writing this story, the only thing I knew for certain was that I wanted it to feel like a fairy tale. With magic witches’ gardens, living scarecrows, and magical animals, the genre seemed only natural, so I began delving into fairy tale structure as a guide. However, the more I learned about fairy tales, the more I realized that they are not only shaped by magical settings and creatures. Rather, traditional fairy tales follow a specific form and style. While some contemporary fairy tales have adopted this form and style, others have utilized fairy tale imagery or tropes to capture a similar fairy tale feeling. With all these things in mind, I began to wonder what really defined a fairy tale and how that distinction should affect my own writing. By comparing the original fairy tales to modern retellings, as well as researching the elements of fairy tales, I was able to make some critical decisions on what The Crow and the Strawman should be, including where it should differ from classic form while still capturing fairy tale magic in other ways. Logan 1 Defining Fairy Tales The fairy tale is a notoriously hard genre to pin down, mostly because they have faced so much change across the centuries, while also being frequently mixed up with other types of tales such as myths, folklore, legends, etc. According to Jack Zipes in his essay, “The Changing Function of the Fairy Tale,” fairy tales originated with the oral “wonder tale,” also called Zaubermärchen or the magic tale. The practice of oral storytelling is ancient, existing even before written language (Zipes, The Irresistible Fairy Tale), but in the late medieval period, wonder tales in particular were popular among the lower, working class. This was not only because many of the people were illiterate, but because of the tales’ inherent wish-fulfillment and comfort. Overall, the main goal was to evoke the feeling of wonder from the audience. Eventually this tradition spread to the upper class, and between the 15th and 17th centuries many oral wonder tales were transcribed and adapted into the literary fairy tale. The change in audience also resulted in a change in the tales’ content, now focusing more on “courtly interests” such as marriage, love, and power. From there, fairy tales frequently reflected the social commentaries and desires of the communities they were created in. Over the years, people have debated over their appropriateness, their intended age group, and more, but eventually, they became an institutionalized piece of the world (Zipes, “Changing Function of Fairy Tale”). However, despite fairy tales making up a large portion of popular literature, there is still some debate on what constitutes a fairy tale. The Oxford English Dictionary defines it as a “tale about fairies; a tale set in fairyland; esp. any of various short tales having folkloric elements and featuring fantastic or magical events or characters.” This is a very broad description, but it seems Logan 2 to place weight on the setting and magical elements. J.R.R. Tolkien expands on this idea in the essay “On Fairy Stories”: The definition of a fairy-story -- what it is, or what it should be -- does not … depend on any definition or historical account of elf or fairy, but upon the nature of Faërie: the Perilous Realm itself, and the air that blows in that country. I will not attempt to define that, nor to describe it directly. It cannot be done. Faërie cannot be caught in a net of words; for it is one of its qualities to be indescribable, though not imperceptible. … Faërie itself may perhaps most nearly be translated by Magic - but it is magic of a peculiar mood and power, at the furthest pole from the vulgar devices of the laborious, scientific, magician. There is one proviso: if there is any satire present in the tale, one thing must not be made fun of, the magic itself. That must in that story be taken seriously, neither laughed at nor explained away. The argument seems to be that, though it is hard to say what exactly qualifies and disqualifies a fairy tale, a few things remain important: the setting–a magical realm both perilous and wonderful–the presence and serious treatment of magic, and the feeling of wonder that it evokes from its reader. In all of these things, Tolkien teaches an important lesson in the fairy tale’s tone, that is the attitude and emotion with which they are told. Fairy tales usually carry an air of mystery and awe. They almost feel intangible, their worlds completely foreign and out of reach. Yet the manner in which they’re told, with a narrator speaking to a reader, gives the impression that everything occurring should be believed as real. Fairy Tale Form Logan 3 Kate Bernheimer finds beauty in the fairy tale’s structure. In her opinion, even though fairy tales have changed drastically over the years, one thing that has remained the same is their form. In her essay, “Fairy Tale is Form, Form is fairy tale,” she focuses on four specific categories: “flatness, abstraction, intuitive logic, and normalized magic” (64). Flatness The first category, flatness, refers to the way characters are portrayed: “Fairy-tale characters are silhouettes, mentioned simply because they are there. They are not given many emotions—perhaps one, such as happy or sad—and they are not in psychological conflict” (66). In essence, the characters are more their roles than they are individuals. The evil stepmother is evil not because of any past trauma or deep motivation, but simply because that is her nature as an evil stepmother. The prince and the princess will fall in love, not because of any real connection, but because that is how the story is meant to go. In Charles Perrault’s version of “Sleeping Beauty,” after the princess wakes and marries the prince, it is revealed that the prince’s mother is an ogress. The idea of an ogress somehow becoming the queen of a human kingdom and the perfect prince role being filled by a half-ogre has such great character building potential; yet, readers are not meant to wonder too much at that detail aside from the conflict the queen causes while attempting to eat her son’s bride and children. Along with this absence of individuality, the most obvious symptom of fairy tale flatness is a lack of interiority. The goals and outward emotions of the characters may be clear, but fairy tales do not linger on any deeper thoughts or feelings. Even some fairy tale adaptations hold back on exploring the characters’ thoughts, such as Jessica Day George’s novel, Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow, a retelling of a Norwegian fairy tale “East of the Sun, West of the Moon.” Though George delves deeper into the situation and personality of the main character than the original Logan 4 tale, there is a certain narrative distance that remains. It feels as if readers are hearing an account of the lass’s thoughts and feelings rather than experiencing them along with the character. For example, this is how the book addresses her feelings on romance: “At sixteen, the lass should have been walking out with one of the young men who lived nearby, but animals interested her much more than young men did. She did not want to end up like her mother: bitter and lonely, with nine children underfoot. The lass loved little children and thought that someday she might like one or two of her own, but first she wanted to see the world” (George 41). The statement on what the lass “should” be doing does not feel like it comes from the lass herself but from an outside source. Also, the description remains somewhat surface level, revealing what the lass does and does not want, but without delving too deeply into her feelings.. Though my novel adheres to some of Tolkien’s instructions on fairy tale tone, such as the serious treatment of magic, The Crow and the Strawman’s interior exploration of its characters makes it more in line with contemporary fiction than a traditional fairy tale. With dual points of view, the story spends time getting to know both of the titular characters on a deeper level. They have distinct personalities: the Strawman takes life seriously, his thoughts on his own existence bound by duty and rules, while the crow, Sable, is more spontaneous and untamed. They stand apart as not just any scarecrow or crow but as specific people shaped by their own personal backgrounds. Rather than watching their story unfold from a distance, readers experience a close third person point of view that puts them into the characters’ shoes. Additionally, unlike many fairy tale characters who go only through an external arc, these characters are set up to have internal character arcs. The Strawman will, for better or worse, begin breaking the rules that keep him alive but also tied to the garden. Meanwhile, Sable will begin to question her loyalties to the witch she serves, as well as her own freedom. Since the majority of the story takes places in the Logan 5 garden, much of the conflict is taking place on a more emotional level. Because of this, I wanted readers to experience the characters up close, to relate with and feel for them, especially as Sable and the Strawman struggle between what is expected of them and what they truly want. Additionally, the characters, with all their quirks and eccentricities, have proved to be one of the most interesting parts of the novel. The decision to give my characters depth rather than using the traditional fairytale flatness allowed me to tap into more emotions and ultimately made the story more entertaining. Abstraction Bernheimer states, “Fairy tales rely on abstraction for their effect. Not many particular, illustrative details are given. The things in fairy tales are described with open language: Lovely. Dead. Beautiful” (67). In simpler terms, fairy tales tell; they don’t show. This goes directly against what most writers are taught today, and the majority of retellings, even those attempting to follow the standard form, evoke greater imagery than their originators. “East of the Sun, West of the Moon” speaks of the four winds that carry the girl to the palace plainly. There isn’t much to differentiate them from each other aside from their names; however, in George’s retelling, she gives each wind a form and feeling to solidify them. The east wind manifests as a gathering of leaves, twigs and mist, blown together in the shape of a wolf. The west wind is merely a tornado swirling with grit and sand. The south wind is warm and wet, using pollen, earth and dew to shape itself into a bird. Finally, the north wind is freezing cold and takes the form of a man formed from ice particles. Abstraction works well with flat characters because it focuses on their essential elements, things that drive the fairy tale forward. Once a character is given more depth, they require more concrete details to make them fit into reality. Logan 6 The Crow and the Strawman, also puts an emphasis on description, and having concrete details rather than abstractions serves to strengthen the story. When it comes to the Strawman, his oakwood limbs were chosen in order to give him a strong, resilient body. His voice, “dry and brittle, like the rattle of corn husks after their season” is meant to feel earthy and reminiscent of a harvest. Another specific detail is the Strawman’s eyes. At the start of the book, he loses one of his eyes in a scuffle with a thief, and Mabin, the witch who created him, needs to sew on a new one, using one of the blue buttons the Strawman had been eyeing. This physical detail is one of the first times that the audience is confronted with the Strawman’s personal desires. The same goes for the other characters. Mabin’s wild, tangled curls and disorderly house show a certain personal freedom and independence from the rest of the world. Meanwhile, Sable’s cloak, shaggy hair and black-tipped toes mirror her appearance as a crow, and her missing toe eventually ties into her bond with her own witch mistress. All these descriptions provide more characterization than what could be given with dialogue and plot alone. Intuitive Logic Bernheimer describes intuitive logic as “a sort of nonsensical sense” (67). For example, in Grimm’s version of “The Frog Prince,” the frog is turned back into a prince because the princess threw him against a wall with no explanation why this was the key to unlocking his humanity. Additionally, the last paragraph of the story is about the prince’s servant Henry who put several bands around his heart to keep it from breaking when the prince was transformed into a frog. In his happiness for the prince’s restoration, the bands began to break one by one. In a story today, it would make no sense to throw in this random character at the end of the book, especially with this very specific lore. Bernheimers explains, “Things usually happen in a fairy tale when they need to happen, but other things happen that have no relevance apart from the Logan 7 effect of language” (68). In a fairy tale, audiences are expected to suspend their disbelief, and accept whatever happens even if it does not make narrative sense. Nor should audiences try to rationalize fairy tale logic into something more realistic. Tolkien states that it is “essential to a genuine fairy-story…that it should be presented as ‘true.’” To do otherwise would diminish the strange, magical world that fairy tales explore. In The Crow and The Strawman, events occur as a natural cause and effect. The Strawman lets a thief go at the beginning of the story, and this later comes back to bite him when the thief returns to his village and, with some encouragement from the main antagonist, incites a mob to go burn down Mabin’s garden. Though audiences may be asked to suspend their disbelief on the more fantastical elements, the logic behind the characters’ decisions and the reasons why the story’s main beats occur are never put into question. Part of this rule works in tandem with the decision to avoid flat characters. Since the characters are being explored on a deeper level, the audience must be able to understand why they make the decisions they do. Normalized Magic One of the most essential elements of a fairy tale is normalized magic because it sets the fairy tale world apart from our own. Bernheimer says, “The natural world in a fairy tale is a magical world. The day to day is collapsed with the wondrous. In a traditional fairy tale there is no need for a portal. Enchantment is not astounding. Magic is Normal” (69). In the world of fairy tales it is not strange for old women to turn out to be witches, for fairies to cast enchantments, or for animals to speak. Many contemporary fairy tale adaptations take on this element even when neglecting others. Gail Carson Levine portrays this beautifully in both Ella Enchanted and Fairest. Creatures such as gnomes, giants, fairies, and trolls are treated as typical parts of life. Ella’s curse of obedience, granted as a gift by the fairy Lucinda, is not a unique occurrence, even Logan 8 described as something she often gives to children. In Fairest, Aza believes a gnome prophecy without question, and she easily finds information about spells and potions in the library. This normalization brings awe to the readers, but allows the characters to remain focused on other parts of the story. Likewise, this was the easiest piece of fairy tale form to incorporate in The Crow and the Strawman. Neither the Strawman nor Sable wonder at each other’s existence. They may be curious about the finer details, having never seen one of each others’ kind, but they are normal beings within their world. Additionally, Mabin’s garden is also natural. She is not the only garden witch out there, and the plants she sells, while not common, are legitimate to everyone around her. However, the amount of detail with which the novel explores the magic may differ from a traditional fairy tale. Most magic in fairy tales takes place by means of intuitive logic, but because of the Strawman’s interest in magic, he puts a lot of thought into how it works, who can use it, and how he might replicate it himself. Fairy Tale Tropes The Crow and the Strawman veers away from most of the fairy tale genre’s structural rules, but today, as new fairy tales are written and old ones are adapted, it appears that form is not the only way to tell a fairy tale. As some writers seek to expand or deepen an already existing story, they often rely on tropes rather than style to create their fairy tales. These may include a variety of things such as using common fairy tale character types like the evil step-mother in Ella Enchanted or an underdog protagonist like Aza from Fairest. A writer might also splice in some classic lines like“once upon a time” or “happily ever after.” In the case of The Crow and Logan 9 Strawman, it follows a few large tropes: magical beings, fairy tale references, and a sense of wonder. Magical Beings ​ Just as The Crow and the Strawman contains normalized magic, it also contains a variety of magical beings common to fairy tales. One of the first magical beings the readers experience is Sable, a character that fits into the talking animal/animal transformation trope. Animal transformation occurs in many original fairy tales, “The Frog Prince,” “The Six Swans,” “Snow White and Rose Red,” “East of the Sun and West of the Moon,” and so on. Oftentimes the protagonists of a fairy tale do not realize an animal is actually a human until the enchantment is broken. This is because in fairy tales almost all animals talk; it is part of normalized magic. One of the most interesting details about Sable is that she does not know whether she was originally a crow or a human. Because of this, she is not sure if she is a human under an enchantment or if she is one of those intelligent animals. ​ Another magical being common to fairy tales is witches. Sometimes they are helpful, giving the protagonist information or items that will help them in the future, and sometimes they are evil, casting curses or harming people. The witches in my novel are important supporting characters as well as antagonists–though one is definitely more harmful than the other. Mabin comes off as a crueler witch because of her refusal to help the townspeople and because she prevents the Strawman from aspiring for more in life. Despite this, she truly cares for him and is ultimately a good person. Meanwhile, Madame acts kinder to the townspeople and lets Sable roam, but she has an ulterior agenda: stealing other witches’ magic. Through them, the book portrays a couple different types of witches, while exploring some of the nuance between good and bad. Logan 10 Fairy Tale References Often, adaptations of fairy tales are themselves labeled as fairy tales simply by association, regardless of their adherence to traditional fairy tale form. In original stories, references such as “true love’s kiss” or certain fairy tale items like red cloaks, spinning wheels, etc. are enough. Throughout The Crow and the Strawman, there are several subtle nods to other fairy tales.I originally was only interested in the character dynamic between a scarecrow and crow. However, after creating the Strawman, I had questions about his background. Where did he come from and what was his purpose? As I thought, the witch from the “Rapunzel” story came to mind. She has a garden that she wants to keep everyone out of and she despises thieves. This not only helped develop Mabin’s character, but also the entire setting of the story. The beans that the Strawman keeps in his pocket at the beginning of the novel is a reference to “Jack and the Beanstalk.” They even grow tall enough to reach the sky so that they can create rain. Also, just as the beans caused both trouble and blessings for Jack, these beans will do the same for the Strawman. Though his curiosity surrounding them will draw him away from the safety of his rules, they will also help him realize that he wants more out of life than protecting the garden. Wonder The most important part of any fairy tale is the ability to induce wonder. When I first began writing, I didn’t know much about structure, motifs, or other concrete fairy tale elements. All I knew was that they had a certain feel. While choosing fairy tales for the collection My Father He Killed Me, My Mother She Ate Me, Brunheimer also mentioned identifying fairy tales by feeling: “When asked by some contributors what a fairy tale was, I would answer: You already know. A fairy tale is a story with a fairy-tale feel” (xxi-xxii). Though that feeling is a Logan 11 hard thing to explain, a large part of it is wonder. After all, Zipes says, “It is this sense of wonder that distinguishes the wonder tale from other oral tales as the legend, the fable, the anecdote, and the myth; it is clearly the sense of wonder that distinguishes the literary fairy tale from the moral story, novella, sentimental tale, and other modern short literary genres” (11). For me, it is this sense of wonder that influences every choice I make within the novel. As I created the different types of magical plants, the witches’ powers, the Strawman’s rules, and the way which Sable transforms, I always focused on whether it brought me a sense of wonder, and if so, I believed that readers would feel it too. Other Contemporary Fairy Tales and Adaptations To get a better idea of what other contemporary writers were doing with their fairy tales, I read several modern fairy tales for reference. I found that every writer has their own way of capturing the fairy tale genre. Angela Carter emphasizes this diversity in style: Ours is a highly individualized culture, with a great faith in the work of art as a unique one-off, and the artist as an original, a godlike and inspired creator of unique one-offs. But fairy tales are not like that, nor are their makers. Who first invented meatballs? In what country? Is there a definitive recipe for potato soup? Think in terms of the domestic arts. ‘This is how I make potato soup.’(qtd. in Bernheimer and Smith) When writing a fairy tale, some writers are looking for an exact recipe, but fairy tales have such a long history, and they have gone through so many changes, that it is impossible to mark one right way to create them. Instead, a writer must make their own personal decision for how they want to pursue fairy tale writing. Logan 12 We see contemporary fairy tales blend tradition, tropes, and personal creativity in a variety of ways, usually utilizing some elements more strongly than others. For example, Joy William’s “Baba Iaga and the Pelican Child” relies heavily on the traditional fairy tale form (Bernheimer and Smith). The characters are fairly flat and abstract, with very simple descriptions such as noble, beautiful, strange, etc. The three animal characters, the dog, the cat, and the pelican child, play dominoes and do coloring pages together, which makes it hard to imagine how animal they actually are. Later, the pelican child is killed by a stranger, and the cat suggests putting her in the oven on a low warm setting to bring her back to life. Though this does not make much sense, readers must rely on intuitive logic because it works exactly as the characters planned. William’s choice to lean into the standards of traditional fairy tales demonstrates how fairy tale form can be adopted while still remaining true to one’s own style. However, Kim Addonizio’s, “Ever After” follows a much different form. This is a world without normalized magic, though the seven dwarves, especially Doc, yearn deeply for some magic in their lives. Instead, the expectation of the Snow White story crashes horribly with reality. The dwarves struggle with a variety of real-world problems–drugs, trauma, unemployment–while being marginalized by society. Though they have regular names, they take on the Disney personas and wait for the day that “she” will come and make everything ok. More than anything, Doc simply wishes to be loved and treated fairly. Yet, in the end, he gives up on believing, deciding the world has nothing worth wishing for. In this way, Addonizio takes a very familiar iteration of a fairy tale and twists it into her own story. Amongst these many fairy tale adaptations, new fairy tale stories are also being written. Jordan Ifueko’s book, The Maid and The Crocodile, is an original story that follows most modern writing expectations, yet with its magical world, full of underworlds, curse-eaters, gods, and Logan 13 more, it has a folkloric feeling. Part of this comes from the manner the story is told. Though the story is in first person, the main character, Small Sade, talks to an unknown “you.” The book starts with these lines, “You are powerful and important, and I am only me. But I am told you are a good listener and if I do not look into your eyes, I am a little less afraid. So I will try to tell my story without lies” (Ifueko 3). This “you" is identified at the end of the book, but up to that point, it feels as if Small Sade is speaking directly to the reader. Because of this, the story almost feels like one of the oral wonder tales of old. These examples are different from each other, but in the end, all of them were a type of fairy tale. Each writer chose their own blend of fairy tale elements, or ingredients, to make their own fairy tale recipe. Likewise, I have also concocted my own mixture to write my story. Fairy tales may continue to change, but some of the elements, whether they be form or tropes, will remain forever, making the fairy tale a consistent, recognizable genre. Conclusion When I first began writing The Crow and The Strawman, I did not know much about what made a story a fairy tale. As I grew more familiar with the traditional form, I debated changing the writing style to fit those standards. However, ultimately I decided, just as the Strawman also realizes within the narrative, that the story was much stronger by breaking rules than keeping to them. Rejecting some elements of traditional form, I was able to create deeper, more interesting characters. However, accepting others, such as the normalization of magic, along with the trope of magical beings, allowed me to create an interesting and awe-inspiring world. My book may not be a traditional fairy tale, but through its own blend of fairy tale tropes and elements, it demonstrates a small piece of the ongoing impact the fairy tale genre has on literature today. Logan 14 Works Cited Bernheimer, Kate. “‘Fairy Tale Is Form, Form Is Fairy Tale.’” The Writer's Notebook (NYC, NY & Portland, OR: Tin House Books), 2010. Bernheimer, Kate and Carmen Giménez Smith, editors. My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me. New York: Penguin Books. 2010. “Fairy Tale, N. & Adj.” Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford UP, December 2025, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/1152560214. George, Jessica Day. Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow. Bloomsbury USA Children, 2008. Grimm Jacob, Crane Lucy, Lucas Edgar, Edwardes Marian, Kredel Fritz and Grimm Wihelm Karl. Grimms' Fairy Tales. New York: Grosset & Dunlap. 1945. Ifueko, Jordan. The Maid and the Crocodile. Abram Books, 2024. Levine, Gail Carson. Ella Enchanted. HarperCollins, 1997. —. Fairest. HarperCollins, 2006. Perrault, Charles. The Tales of Mother Goose as First Collected by Charles Perrault in 1696. Project Gutenberg Tolkien, J. R. R. "On Fairy-Stories." Essays Presented to Charles Williams, edited by C. S. Lewis, Oxford University Press, 1947, pp. 38-89. Zipes, Jack. "The Changing Function of the Fairy Tale." The Lion and the Unicorn, vol. 12 no. 2, 1988, p. 7-31. Project MUSE, https://dx.doi.org/10.1353/uni.0.0236. —. The Irresistible Fairy Tale : The Cultural and Social History of a Genre. Princeton University Press, 2012. EBSCOhost, research.ebsco.com/linkprocessor/plink?id=b79e6a8d-b7f3-364a-833b-f3e67b4840e1. Logan 15 The Crow and the Strawman Chapter One The Strawman had three instructions. Three flavors of obedience written on the rigid piece of leather that made up his tongue. The Strawman had never eaten, so he had no real comparison for taste, but each instruction carried a different sensation when put into practice. At this moment, Instruction 1 burned into him like fire. Every inch of burlap flesh aflame with protective fury. Protect the garden. It rang in his ears and branded into his soul—or essence. Spellwork. Soul was debatable. The thief gripped a handful of sparking blue beans in one fist and a rock in the other. He was a bony, stringy-haired thing that had been slinking around the outskirts of the garden since yesterday afternoon. It had only been a matter of time before he made the mad dash inside. He’d gone straight for the petrichors. Not just a stray then, a man on a mission. That was more dangerous. The Strawman surged for his arm, and the thief threw the rock at his head. It hit hard, snapping his head back on his wooden neck with a sharp creak. He lifted it again slowly, feeling along the pole for any breakage, but only finding a long hairline crack along one side. He turned on the man again. One button eye dropped, scuffed and painless to the dirt. The man cringed back. The Strawman dashed forward, this time seizing him by his swatting wrists. They were bony and brittle beneath his oak fingers, and when he squeezed, the thief immediately crumpled but did not open his fist. “Let go,” the Strawman said, squeezing harder. Logan 16 The man winced, squinting at him sideways like he could hardly bear to look. “Please,” the man croaked. “We’re starving.” “Let. Go.” “The town over said the witch has beans that sprout rainclouds. Please, we just need a few until the drought–” The Strawman broke his wrist. The thief shrieked, yanking backward, and the Strawman let him fall to his elbows. The beans dropped to the dirt, but rather than snatch for them again, the thief cradled his arm against his chest and scrambled backward. He left a long furrow in the soft earth, and the Strawman followed it until the thief was backed and trembling against one of the bean trellises. The Strawman regarded him impassively. Wild, red eyes and pathetic whimpering mixed between heavy breaths; the man had no fight left. Maybe the Strawman should kill him. Now that he’d seen the garden, he might return, and next time with help. But then again, maybe the man’s story would prevent anyone else from trying. “Go.” The Strawman pointed to the woods. “Now.” The man didn’t wait for another second of encouragement, rolling onto his knees and falling once, twice, before finally finding his footing and tearing over the garden’s edge. The Strawman watched until he was out of sight, Instruction 1’s inferno cooling into dying embers, then walked back up the row, kicking the earth smooth again as he went. He scooped up the beans and his other eye and shoved them deep into his pocket. Now that the beans had been harvested, Mabin would have to sell them or cook them until they cracked, and all the raw magic steamed out. As for the eye, maybe he’d say he lost it in the Logan 17 scuffle. He’d glimpsed a bottle of blue buttons through the window the other day while Mabin was sewing a new capelet. He’d never had blue eyes. A quick survey of the rest of the plants told him that everything was still in order. The man had only targeted the one plant, and nothing else was harmed in the scuffle. Though the bean plant the man had torn the petrichors from was sparking, making the whole plant tremble. He bent down next to the plant and ran his fingers up the offending vine, ignoring the little jagged marks that the shocks seared into his hand. The beans weren’t even ready for harvest, the blue pods hung in stout, flat bunches all across the plant, only a few beginning to bulge with the starts of beans. The Strawman wasn’t exactly sure how the magic worked, but it was possible the beans wouldn’t have worked, even if the thief managed to escape with them. Finding the end of the injured vine, he pulled the little curved, pruning blade from its sheath on his tool belt and cut the entire thing off. It spasmed in the dirt for a few seconds, as if it had a life of its own, but then it went still. Next came the sealing poultice. The little tin sat at the bottom of one of the belt’s pockets, small enough to fit in his fist. The goop was thick and yellow, and it smelled like hot compost and squirrel piss, but it did the job. He dabbed a bit on his pinky, swiping it across the bean plant’s wound. That should keep any more lightning, or magic, from leaking out. With a curt nod at his work, he straightened back up and headed for the watchtower at the garden’s center—if one could even call it such. It was more like a tall pole with planks nailed into either side for rungs. The Strawman hoisted himself onto the first step, and within a few moments, he was six feet in the air, gazing out at the neat, vibrant garden squares. The rows of corn and beans near the front merged into short boxes of flowers and ground vegetables and then into colorful arched trellises at the back, each tall enough to walk under and covered in a Logan 18 different specimen. Pink climbing roses that made people fall in love, crimson tomatoes that granted a few hours of bravery, deep curling ivy that, once cut, gained a mind of its own, snakish, aggressive, and great for guarding things, all of it lay perfect, beautiful, and dormant, and it was his job to keep it that way. The sky streaked orange and red on the horizon, the long yellow grass on the other side of the garden’s border, glistening gold in the dying light. He tensed a little. By now, the rabbits and ground squirrels that used to dare a nibble after dusk knew him, but the darkness could always bring other thieves. Guarding the garden was always easy during the spring when everything was new, but now in the heat of summer, with everything beginning to fruit, the attempts usually became more frequent. Mabin despised them, and so, he did too. Their fruitless insistence on stealing what they wanted rather than simply purchasing it was a mystery. Mabin might have been exclusive, unpredictable, and a hermit, but to anyone who actually deigned to accept a contract, she was quite fair. At least, the Strawman thought so. Not that he’d seen many deals. Mabin hated anyone coming to the house, so most sales happened elsewhere and anonymously. Safer. A flicker of black out of the corner of his eye brought him back to attention. A large black crow circled overhead, rising and falling on the breeze, the last of its winter feathers hanging in scraggly patches. The Strawman clenched his hands into fists. No. Not today. Maybe a person could be frightened into silence, but crows did talk, and he wasn’t risking one getting back to its flock to tell the tale. He threw himself from his watchpoint, legs creaking as he hit the ground and rushed for the very stone that moments ago had struck him. He hurled it with all his might, shouting Logan 19 something between brutish noise and a curse when the crow tipped its wings and smoothly dipped out of the way, circling lower in the process. The lower it dropped, the more the Strawman could appreciate how truly enormous the thing was. Raven? No, the beak was too thin, and the tail feathers fanned out straight. Unless there was some mystery corvid he hadn’t seen, this was simply a strangely oversized crow. Perhaps enchanted. Or unnaturally created, like him. Could this creature be– What did any of it matter? He was just going to kill it. He searched the ground for another stone. Mabin had cleared most of them out, but there were still the bricks surrounding the flower patch. He snatched one and held it at eye level, measuring the crow's movements, its speed, its angle, and then he hucked it a couple of inches ahead of its path. In that mere second, the bird should have continued its trajectory forward. The brick should have struck its skull. Crushed its head. Plummeted it like a stone. Instead, the crow dove, a black arrow from some dark god’s quiver, streaking straight for him. He threw up his hands to grab it, but at the last moment, the crow swooped up and… And unfolded. Wings dropped into the long, draping ends of a cloak, feathers into a shaggy mane of dark, dark hair, and the blackened tips of her otherwise pale fingers gave the illusion of claws. Her bare feet struck the curved top of one arched trellis, causing the entire thing to clack and shudder. She held her arms out wide for balance, and her toes curled around the slats. They were just as black-tipped as her fingers, like they’d been stained with soot. The middle toe on her right foot was missing. “Why are you trying to brick me when you just let that guy go?” she said, waving at the forest. “Which was stupid by the way. He’s definitely coming back, and this time with a mob.” Logan 20 “You’re a shapeshifter!” the Strawman exclaimed despite himself. Shifter magic wasn’t exactly common, so it only felt right to appreciate it a little, even with Instruction 1 flaring up in his chest. The woman raised herself higher on her toes, puffing herself up. “No, I’m a crow.” “A human who can turn into a crow.” Protect the garden. Protect the garden. Protect the garden. He clomped up to the trellis’s edge and grabbed for the nearer ankle. She danced back from his reach. “Or a crow who can turn into a human. Who’s to say?” “No one has ever heard of– Well, unless it’s an avian variant of a lycanthropic colony, not quite human or animal, or maybe–” He stopped himself short. That didn’t matter. “Crow or not, you’re trespassing. Leave.” “Does your voice always sound like that?” the crow said, walking on tiptoe to the far end of the trellis. He followed along beside her, feeling a lot like a pacing cat, ready to pounce as soon as his prey came into range. “Sound how?” “Like you need a glass of water?” The Strawman frowned. He knew his voice was off, dry and brittle, like the rattle of corn husks after their season. It was as much a deterrent to thieves as his horrible, animated body. But people didn’t usually point it out. “I don’t drink.” He wasn’t sure if he meant it as a defense or an explanation, but he immediately felt annoyed for indulging the crow with a response. “Yeah, I’m gathering that. What exactly are you?” “The Strawman.” Logan 21 “The Strawman? Is that a title or…” “It’s a position.” And a lifestyle. And a name. Maybe a species. When it came down to it, if he had any question about identity, “Strawman” fit most of the answers. “I stand between the likes of you and the garden. Now, you have two options: fly away and don’t come back, or I come up there and wring your neck.” “But you are alive?” The Strawman wanted to scream. Here he was, threatening to kill her, and this crow wasn’t even taking it seriously. He grabbed the trellis in both hands and gave it a violent shake. A few hanging cucumbers dislodged from their vines, hitting the ground with heavy thunks. He’d probably regret ruining the crops later, but right now, he just wanted her down. The crow dropped to all fours, clinging for life to the wooden slats. But she had flesh and muscles—all it took was a sweaty palm or limbs grown too tired to keep their grip—and he could do this all day. When she finally fell, she fell headfirst, flipping over the front of the trellis and landing hard on her back. She wheezed, arching slightly as a puff of dust settled over her. The Strawman rushed around the side. The crow was already rolling onto her side, one arm wrapped around her stomach, the other fishing into her trouser pocket. She gasped in a breath, and coughed violently as her lungs rejected it. The Strawman grabbed for her throat, but her bare heel slammed into his one eye, momentarily dazing him. He jerked sideways, reaching again, but her hand was back out of her pocket, a flicker of white between her fingertips. She practically shoved her entire fist into her mouth. Logan 22 “Stop!” It came out croaked, but it struck with all the force of a torrential storm. The Strawman froze. The tingle of magic washed over him, intense at first and then only a light brush, like so many fingers feeling for a knot in a ball of yarn. Stop. A command spell. Usually, such a spell would take hold of a creature’s muscles, paralyzing them. Except, he wasn’t human; he was magic too. To stop him, the spell needed to undo whatever was making him move in the first place. That’s when Instruction 2 washed cold over him. Obey nobody but your creator. The icy wave numbed him to the spell’s prodding, cutting the magic short. He didn’t know where the crow was sourcing her magic from, but Mabin’s spellwork was stronger. Obviously, the crow did not know that yet. She had staggered to her feet, fishing another white something from her pocket: a scrap of paper with a rune inked over the surface. She placed it on her tongue more gently this time. “Bring me a bleedbead.” The Strawman fought the urge to glance at the bush’s dark home in the back of the tool shed, only exposed on full moons when he slipped out one of the roof slats and let it drink in the muted light. Instruction 2 froze out the new command just as quickly as the first time, and he took a long step in the crow’s direction, head half-tilted. “Now what do you need that for?” The crow blanched, exhaling a tiny gasp before making a run for the other end of the arched tunnel. Logan 23 The Strawman followed close on her heels. His fingertips skimmed her arm, but in a flash of dark and feathers, she folded back into a crow. “Hey!” His boots pounded back up the path between the beans and corn, his tireless legs holding him side by side with her powerful wings. Her primary feathers skated across the corn fronds almost teasingly, then she was too high to touch. He kept his gaze fixed on the shrinking black smudge of her body, scooping up another stone mid-stride. He could still hit her. She wouldn’t see. She was looking ahead, not– An enormous weight crashed against him, knocking him backward like a rag doll. Even as he caught his balance, the sensation remained throughout his body, heavy enough to make his legs wobble and his head feel thick. Instruction 3. Never leave the garden. It was the worst of feelings. Instruction 1 gave him energy. Instruction 2 neutralized and protected. But Instruction 3 was like a trap. The Strawman staggered back to the edge of the garden—this time careful not to cross the pebble marker line—just in time to see the crow sail high above the treetops and disappear. Great. He’d have to tell Mabin about this one when she returned. He suddenly wished he hadn’t let the bean thief go. A single crow was one thing, but losing two thieves made him look bad. Unless he didn’t mention the first one. After all, he’d only been after petrichors. The Strawman could always tell Mabin that an animal had chewed them off the vine, or better yet, he Logan 24 could keep them for his own rainy day. He wouldn’t mind playing with the spellwork on something that wouldn’t be missed. In any case, the crow was the most important thing to report. Stealing bleedbeads was not the same as stealing petrichors. They were Mabin’s core. Her blood. Her power. The only use they had for someone else was dark magic. And a dark magic user with Mabin’s location was its own problem. He stared off at the empty air above the forest. He had to hope that the crow’s failure at enchanting him would be enough to keep her away for good, but somehow he doubted it. Chapter Two Mabin was off the cart before the spell-wrought wheels had even come to a stop, a flurry of wiry limbs, flapping blue capelet ends, and thick, thick tangled curls. Her heeled boots hit the dirt road with a quiet thud, and the cart scrambled to match her pace, skidding to a dusty, unsteady stop alongside her. “Oh, piss off!” she snapped at the vehicle. “You don’t need to follow my every step! Just get those things to the back!” The cart shuddered a little but obediently continued up the drive toward its usual resting place at the back of the house. Sometimes the Strawman wondered how much sentience the cart actually had. It wasn’t made from scratch like he was; it was just a regular horse-drawn carriage Mabin had taken a shine to at one of her markets because she liked the big, gold-spoked wheels and royal blue paint job. With its little cabin and seats, and rear boot for luggage, the cart was definitely meant more for passengers than transporting goods. If Mabin was to be believed, she’d traded it right out Logan 25 from under some foreign Duke who had a penchant for magical items–the charmed boutonniere, with its red rose for attraction and its baby’s breath for innocence, hadn’t even been the most valuable of her items. Mabin only called it “the cart” because she claimed she didn’t want it to get full of itself if it figured out it was of noble pedigree. Such comments didn’t help the Strawman’s wonderings, but he knew she didn’t mean much by them. To her, the cart was just something she’d magicked into independent movement. The puppyish personality he saw in it was probably his own projection. “Blasted clingy piece of junk,” Mabin grumbled, and then she was off at a march up the garden path. “Hey! Strawman! Was there another one?” He waited patiently for her to reach his spot at the cottage entrance before tilting his head forward in confirmation Mabin hissed something unintelligible under her breath that the Strawman could almost guarantee was a curse word, and not a mild one. Then her dark, beetle eyes were looking him up and down. “Roshin’s blaze, are you trying to wear yourself out?” Her hand went gruffly to his jaw, and he let her move his head back and forth as she surveyed the most recent damages. “You know you’re not a person, right?” “I know.” “You don’t just heal up on your own when you break.” “People don’t usually heal from gouged-out eyes either.” “Don’t get cute. I’m the one who has to stitch you up and replace parts every time you let something hit you, or, even harder, trick the magic into thinking you’re something alive so that it will heal you.” She flicked her finger at the crack in his neck. Logan 26 “You don’t need to fix me. I’m still functional.” “Like hell. I didn’t make you to be walking trash. Wait here.” Mabin dashed up the porch steps, skipping over the second stair completely. Within a few moments, she returned with a little palm-sized jar. She grabbed him by the shoulders, and the Strawman allowed himself to be pushed down onto the top porch step. Mabin unscrewed the jar lid and scooped out a thick dollop of pale, wet clay. With the heel of her other hand, she pushed his head up and to the side, then proceeded to smear the goop over the thin crack in his neck. The clay itself was not magic. It was simply a plaster to protect the area until the stripped branch that was his neck did what trees did and produced new growth to seal off the cut. He had a few knots on his arms and legs from similar small breaks. The actual magic was internal, the threadwork of Mabin’s magic connecting with the threadwork of his, telling it that the branches were not dead, disconnected pieces, but in fact alive, still a part of a larger whole. It made him feel like another one of the plants, tended to the same way that he tended them with the poultice when they got ripped or nibbled on. He was made of wood and straw, and even his skin was woven from plant fibers, so maybe that wasn’t too far off. Mabin rubbed the extra clay residue on her skirt and pointed at him. “Don’t touch that. Now, where’s your eye?” The piece of metal and dark enamel suddenly weighed heavy in his pocket. “I don’t know. I lost it somewhere in the fight.” She sighed, yanking a long sewing needle out of her sleeve and working it under the threads of the spare lapis button sewn into the bottom corner of her capelet. The threads binding Logan 27 it snapped, and she held the button up toward his face, squinting and tilting her head back and forth before nodding affirmingly. “How did this even happen?” Mabin said, fishing into her skirt pocket for thread. Before the Strawman could reply, she was already continuing. “One blasted drought and everyone goes insane. First, they’re up in arms over the use of magic, calling it ‘dangerous’ and ‘evil’, blaming me for their misuse, when I just sell the stuff. Now, suddenly they’re all, ‘Please sell us some magic. We’ll do anything. We’re just stupid little villagers, who’ve never done anything.’ Well, they can kiss my–” “There was a crow.” Mabin stopped unwinding the thread and raised her brows. “What did it do? Peck you a lot?” “A talking one. And it could shift.” “Ah.” She snapped the thread with a sharp jerk and threaded it through the needle. “She tried using spellwork on me.” “Was she a witch?” The Strawman shook his head. He would’ve known. Even being near Mabin created a reaction, the magic that made him tugging gently toward the magic inside her. And it wasn’t only because she was his creator. Almost two years ago, not long after the Strawman’s creation, a warlock had come by the cottage, all covered in talismans and hungry for new spellwork. Before Mabin scared him away with some of the beastlier plants, the Strawman’s magic had flared up within him, a buzzing beneath his skin, like an angry swarm of bees grown territorial of its hive. He’d felt no such thing from the crow’s presence. “She used runes, but they weren’t her own.” Logan 28 “Then she’s either stupid or she’s working for a witch. Or both. They’re not mutually exclusive.” “Hm.” His gaze wandered to the tree line. It made sense. What could a bleedbead do for a crow? Not that a non-witch using blood magic was unthinkable. It was certainly easier to conjure power with, but it also held a lot more risks. Corruption being the main one. “Stop looking away, or I’ll sew it on crooked.” “Sorry.” “What was she after, anyway?” “Bleedbeads.” Mabin paused mid-stitch. “Blast. She didn’t see them, did she?” “No. That’s what the runes were for. She tried to command me to bring them to her, but they failed.” “Ha! I’d like to see the day that an ink and paper witch overtakes one of my spells. It might actually be entertaining.” That thought seemed to spin around behind her eyes for a moment, and her wry grin quickly leveled into a straight line. “Last thing I need is some crone coming around messing with the garden. You keep an eye—two eyes—out for anything weird, yeah?” The Strawman fought the urge to nod. “Of course.” “Anything else happen?” “No.” The Strawman was surprised how much easier the second lie came. “Good. Less trouble.” She broke the thread with her teeth and clapped him a couple times on his burlap cheek. “All done.” Logan 29 The Strawman rose from the step and peered at his reflection in the windowpane, turning sideways to admire the one blue eye. The grin that followed was involuntary and quickly smothered. “You know,” he said, forcing his voice nonchalant, “if you don’t want me to look like trash, you could switch out the other and make them match.” Mabin rolled her eyes. “And that would be for my sake?” “You’re the one who cares about appearances.” She chuckled. “You vain thing.” A pause. “I’ll think about it. You hear me: think. These were expensive, can’t go using them up on a scarecrow.” The Strawman nodded. She’d already given him the one too easily; he shouldn’t push too hard for the second. Mabin wasn’t cruel, but she was easily annoyed and unpredictable. Mabin stretched her arms over her head and leaned back a bit on her heels. “I’m going to unload and get to bed early. The ride was long.” “Was the trip good?” “Tolerable. I should trade that blasted cart for something I can actually sleep horizontal in. Something with more space for goods, too.” The Strawman nodded appeasingly. Mabin complained at the start and end of every trip, yet whenever she returned, the cart was the same. By this point, he was pretty sure she liked making the complaints more than she actually wanted to fix the problems. “Night, Strawman. Or afternoon. Whatever.” She waved her arm tiredly at him, then disappeared around the house to unload. Logan 30 The Strawman mozied back toward the front of the patch where the corn stalks grew long enough on either side to hide him from view. But he still waited fifteen minutes for the front door to slam before pulling the beans out into the open. He lowered himself crisscross to the dirt path and spread the beans out in front of him. There were three pods, small, bright blue, and covered in jagged scars, as if their thin skin could barely contain the electricity within. Three storms worth. Not enough to do much good for the thief anyway. Now that the Strawman had the time to look at them, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. He wanted to know how they worked, but where did he even begin finding that out? A part of him had thought that he would just know. That being magic-made would give him an extra sense for it. Apparently not. He picked one of the beans up between his thumb and forefinger and turned it back and forth in front of his new blue eye. Neither the newness, nor the blueness, did anything different for his vision. Maybe breaking one open would help. It might end with him being electrocuted, but he was pretty sure he was sturdy enough to stand it, and it was about all he could think of right now. Whipping out his pruning knife, he poked tentatively at one of the pods with the blade’s point. It felt a bit like trying to pierce a stone. The Strawman frowned, picking up the bean and pressing it between his thumb and forefinger. There was a little bit of give, yet when he tried with the knife again, this time with a bit more enthusiasm, the blade simply glanced off. Alright. New plan. Logan 31 The Strawman scooped the beans into his hand and walked back toward the tool shed. He eased the shed door open slowly, listening a moment for any sound from the cottage before stepping inside and plucking a sickle from its hanging place on the wall. He backed over the threshold one careful step at a time, hooking the door handle with two fingers and closing it slowly…slowly…sl— “What are you doing?” The Strawman jolted, whipping around fast and nearly dropping sickle and beans before he saw the crow, crouched, elbows to her knees, on the thatched rooftop. She tilted her head a little as their eyes met, a wide grin curving across her face. “I like your eyes.” The Strawman gripped the sickle tighter, Instruction One coming to life under the surface like a slow-waking predator. “What are you doing here?” Remembering himself, he lowered his voice into a guttural whisper. “I told you to leave!” “You’re being pretty sneaky. Are you supposed to be in there?” “Stop pretending not to hear me. You’re the one who isn’t supposed to be here. Why did you come back?” “I wanted to bring you something.” She tucked her black-tipped hand into her cloak and drew out something pale and gleaming. She tossed it to the earth. The Strawman slipped the beans back into his pocket and approached the item cautiously, never taking his eyes off the crow until the smooth metal was in his hand. It looked like silver. It had been molded into an almost circle, the ends curling back into themselves rather than connecting with each other. A long pin cut through the center. Logan 32 “What is this?” “A brooch.” “No, I know that. I’ve seen one before. Why did you bring it to me?” “Doesn’t everyone like pretty things like that?” He fixed her with his best cold stare. “No. Crows do.” She straightened up out of her crouch, but remained slightly leaned, hands on her knees. “Is that so?” It was a truth and a lie. Of course, not everyone liked such things. He’d only met a series of merchants and thieves, but even he knew that. Yet he was one of those who did. It was silly. He didn’t need his own things, but he wanted them. What would he even do with a brooch? He didn’t get cold, so he had no need for a cloak. He couldn’t wear it without Mabin asking where it had come from. And in any case, he didn’t trust the source. He held it out palm up. “I don’t want it.” The crow straightened all the way now, turning her back on him with a quiet swish of her cloak against the thatching. “Well, I don’t want it.” The Strawman set his jaw. “You brought it.” “I gave it to you. I can’t take back a gift. Besides, it’s not as if I want to come down to get it.” He clenched his wooden teeth a little harder. “I can get onto the roof.” She looked over her shoulder. “Can you?” “Yes.” “Not without making a lot of noise though, right?” Logan 33 He paused. He’d been so caught up in arguing, he’d forgotten he was trying to be discreet. When he spoke again, he dropped his voice even quieter. “Why would you think that?” The crow only raised her thick brows and grinned again. “We can make a good deal out of it. I want to talk to you; you want to be quiet. If we moved away from the house, we’d both be happy.” This was a trap. “I’m not just letting you into the garden,” he said. “I’ll stay on the other side of the border.” She extended her pinkie into the air. “Pinkie promise. I don’t really want you trying to kill me again either.” The Strawman paused. Most certainly a trap. But she was right about him not wanting Mabin to find him at this moment, and if he could keep the crow on the outside, maybe even question her while he was at it, he wasn’t doing anything to break the rules. He pointed at her. “If you try anything, I will kill you.” “And I believe you.” The crow folded back up into a bird and took off from the roof. It was just as amazing as the first time the Strawman had seen it, but this time, without the rage of the first instruction at full blaze, he could fully appreciate the smoothness of the transformation. As cloak shrank into wings and hair shortened into feathers, it seemed only natural, like they’d never been anything else. Like they shouldn’t be anything else. Yet, if he concentrated on it, he was sure he’d felt practically the same when her body folded out long and gangly. When he reached the border of the garden, she was already sitting crisscross on the other side of the pebble line. He stayed standing, watching her closely for any sign that she might suddenly try to break in. Logan 34 He tossed the brooch into the dirt in front of her. “There.” The crow picked it up, spinning it around both index fingers. “You’re so stubborn. I thought you might want something from the outside, that’s all. You know. Since you can’t leave.” “Who said I can’t?” He immediately felt silly at the feigned ignorance. After all, she’d suggested this arrangement of sitting on the other side, so of course she already knew. She looked up at him. “You seemed like you would’ve chased me longer. Anyway, I like gifts, so I thought you would like it.” “I don’t care about anything out there.” “Really? You’re not curious at all? Doesn’t it get boring staying in the same place every day?” The Strawman stiffened, a sensation very similar to Instruction 1 washing hot over him. It took him a moment to realize it was anger. He knew emotions, had experienced all of them in their own times, but there usually was no reason for anger. Why did the crows' words frustrate him so much? “The garden is my purpose,” he snapped. “My reason for existence. Without it, I would be nothing but kindling.” The crow set the brooch on the ground and dropped her chin into her hands. “I guess that’s a good point. And if you like it, I guess I shouldn’t talk bad about it.” Yes. Of course. That was the reason he got angry. She was speaking offensively against his job. His everything. Well, two could play at that. “I’m sure I like it much better than I would being a thief.” Logan 35 The crow’s dark eyes widened, then she burst into laughter. She threw herself back against the earth, as if the laughter made her too weak to sit upright. The Strawman frowned deeply. “That’s probably for the best,” she said, gasping in a breath. “I can’t even imagine you trying to steal something. You’d stand out straight away! Unless you were in a cornfield. Besides, you're way too much of a rule follower.” The Strawman pinned his mouth tightly shut. She said rule follower like it was a bad thing. But rules were everything. The garden would have been destroyed long ago otherwise. The crow propped herself up on her elbows. “Except you were hiding something earlier. What was that about?” He turned his head the other way. “Come oooon. Who would I even tell?” The Strawman let out a little hmph in place of a real breath. “If you must know, there were some spare beans that came off the plant. I wanted to study them a bit. For gardening purposes. In case anything was wrong with them. I was just getting a tool to break one open.” “Why were you trying to hide it?” “Because there’s no point in making Mabin worry, and it’s none of your business anyway.” The crow rolled onto her side, resting her head in the crook of one extended, slender arm. “Can I see?” “No.” “Tell me what they are?” “No.” Logan 36 “I could ask for tips if you want me to.” He stared at her. “Tips?” “From my witch.” Instruction One leaped a little at the mention. A threat, but one he needed information on. “Does she know anything about plant magic?” “Some, I think.” She plucked a few pieces of grass and began tying them into knots. “She uses certain ones as ingredients. And she knew about some of the things here.” An idea struck the Strawman. If he shared some information, something harmless, he could leach out information about the crow’s witch in return. Maybe the crow was trying to trick him by offering help, but he could trick her right back.. “Petrichors,” the Strawman said. “I want to know how they work.” “Petritrors. I don’t know what that is.” “Petrichors. They’re rain beans. It’s fine if you don’t find anything out.” “Well, I can at least try, and that’s better than nothing, right?” The Strawman wasn’t sure he agreed with that. He’d tried and failed things before, and it was never a good feeling. The crow gathered herself up from off the ground, patting down her black trousers and cloak ends. “I should probably be going now anyway. I don’t really want that garden witch seeing me.” She turned a bright grin on him. “I’ll be back, though.” “Great,” he muttered. “One more thing, though. Do you have a name?” The Strawman didn’t respond right away, trying to discern if this was another sort of trap, but eventually said, “The Strawman. Or just Strawman if you want it more namelike.” Logan 37 “That’s not a name.” “Do you have a name?” he countered. “Of course. My name is Sable, which is a very proper, nice name for a crow.” The Strawman felt a little annoyed at that. He hadn’t expected a crow to actually have one. “Sable.” He tested the taste of it in his mouth. “Did your witch give it to you?” “No. It’s what I’ve always been called. But not all names are from always. I can help you come up with one of your own if you like.” He shook his head. “There’s no reason for it. I would have no one to call me by it.” “I would.” “You’re not supposed to be here.” “Yeah.” She tilted her head. “But I still am.” With that, she folded up into a crow and flapped off toward the trees. The Strawman shook his head disapprovingly, mostly at himself. It had been stupid to start up a conversation with the creature. He was lucky she hadn’t tried anything this time around, but he couldn’t be so sure about the next. He should stay alert in case there was some plan of hers he had missed. As he turned back toward the watchtower, something shiny caught his attention. He looked down at his feet. The brooch stared back. At some point, the crow must have thrown it back onto his side of the garden. Well. He couldn’t just leave it there for Mabin to see. He picked it up quickly, trying not to think about it too hard as he added it to the other secrets in his pocket. Logan 38 Chapter Three The world looked dead from up above. A dry, yellowed corpse that stretched out for miles and miles, rocks peeking out like protruding bone, long-picked clean of anything useful or nourishing. Even the scar of trees running down the center looked twisted and brittle, their clawing branches rattling in the breeze. It all sort of reminded Sable of some of the mummified creatures in Madame’s trunk, magical things that were of better use dead than alive. Maybe that was why the garden witch wouldn’t share those rain bean thingies because she liked the land dead. She probably got more business because of it. Or her garden was so perfect and alive, she didn’t care if everything around her shriveled. Either way, it wasn’t any of Sable’s business. It wasn’t like they were staying. As soon as this garden witch snag was smoothed out, and Madame had what she wanted, they’d be off to the next place, with a new view, hopefully one more interesting. She tipped her wings forward, enjoying the little lurch in her stomach as she plummeted toward a particularly gnarled patch of trees, brushing past the branches and remains of sunscorched leaves and breaking into the little clearing beneath. When she was a couple of feet from the ground, she transfigurified, dropping feet first into camp. She winced slightly at the needling feeling rushing up her feet and into the rest of her body. It was always a little prickly when she changed, but even more so when she did it so frequently. Usually, she could get away with staying in one form or the other for a few days, but when there were jobs, it got more complicated. She shook the remaining pins and needles out of her feet as she walked and looked around their site. The round caravan sat quietly in the same place, its blue-green paint job vibrant against the grey-brown backdrop of everything else. Madame’s work desk had been unfolded and moved Logan 39 outside, along with a few books and a bowl of what looked like water mixed with ink. She must have been practicing scrying again. That probably meant she was on another one of her “calming” walks because the only living thing in sight was Snapdragon, munching boredly at his feedbag. He seemed to glare at her from the corner of his eye, and Sable stuck her tongue out at him. Stupid horse. A fire crackled low in its pit, something skinned and blackened stretched across the spit. Sable squatted down and pinched off a piece of scalding meat, blowing on it furiously before shoving it into her mouth. It was as dry as everything else around this place, but it tasted like rabbit, so she picked up the entire rod and began peeking around for signs of Madame. The caravan was empty but for its usual trunks, bottles, and clutter. She didn’t venture past the threshold–being inside anything felt constraining–but a smoky, spicy, sickly scent she had come to associate with Madame emanated from inside. “Hellooo?” she called. No reply. Sable let out a long breath. Honestly, she was sort of relieved. She wanted to record the storyworthy parts of the day, and if the witch was here, she probably would have ordered her to do something boring. Or just watched. It felt like she was always watching. Even when she wasn’t. Not with her eyes, at least. Ever since she got the divination powers, her concept of vision had been…weird. Even if she was struggling right now.. Sable gripped the edge of the roof in her free hand, kicking off the railing on one side of the door to pull herself up. She landed in an undignified flop on her stomach and quickly rolled up into a sitting position. After digging her story book and a stubby piece of graphite out of her trouser pocket, she cradled the journal in the crook of her knee and began flicking through its Logan 40 pages. Healer. Elemental. Animal speaker. Culinary charms. There were so many magical talents, Sable was going to run out of room someday. Finally, she came to a blank page right after the entry on the crazy fortune teller lady. Sable scratched the letters with careful concentration. It was hard to make letters clear when her writing utensil had gotten so small. Talking scarecrow. She wrote it big, like a title, then underneath in smaller print: Things to know ●​ Protects the garden ●​ Can’t leave ●​ Likes magic ●​ Acts like a person ●​ Cursed? Prince? She always wrote that one down just to be safe. It hadn’t happened yet, but if it did, she wanted to be able to say that she’d seen it coming. Princes always seemed to be getting cursed into unfortunate shapes and forms. Princesses too. At least in all the good stories. For a bit, Sable had wondered if she was a princess. It would have made sense for a dramatic backstory, a girl cursed into an animal shape, forced into humble circumstances until someone came to break the spell and bring her back to where she belonged. She’d asked Madame about it once, but the witch had seemed so amused by the question that Sable had immediately regretted it. It was probably true that she had come from the woods, especially when her earliest memories involved nests and bugs, but that didn’t mean she was wrong. Maybe it was just reversed, and she was a crow princess cursed into a girl shape. She decided not to voice this thought outloud, but it lived at the Logan 41 front of the journal, all the points listed out so that she could play it out in her head a few different ways whenever she got bored. ​ She tore a chunk out of the roast rabbit, mulling over the last point a little longer. The Strawman being a cursed prince would make a great story, but it probably wasn’t true. ​ She left a gap for more information and began drawing his face to the best of her ability in the bottom corner. Two-colored eyes, scraggly straw hair…more put together than a regular scarecrow. Yes, he’d been missing an eye when he first met, and the next time he had two, so he could come apart, but the way he moved, that didn’t seem to be an immediate danger. He was solid, the straw stuffed under his clothes giving him a certain heft. She wondered what would happen if she tried grabbing a handful of it. Would it come out, or would it stick firm, like a permanent part of his body? Would it hurt him? Could he be hurt? ​ “Sable!” Sable shot up straight at the scratchy voice, shoving her things away and spinning around on her toes. “Heya, Madame!” She saluted, realizing too late that she was holding the spit in that hand, now raising half a dead rabbit in the air. Madame frowned. “Come down, please.” Sable nodded, shoving off the roof in one big leap that sort of felt like flying, that is, until her human body yanked her down to the earth again. It wasn’t quite as fun as a human. Her heels smarted as they hit the hard ground, but she didn’t even grimace, instead rocking up and down in front of Madame expectantly. If Sable could describe Madame in one word, it would be old. She didn’t always look it–the current porcelain smoothness of her skin contrasting the starlight in her hair–but it could Logan 42 be felt. It was the creak in her voice, the flinty, knowing look in her eyes, like she’d seen all there was to see. “Do you have anything to report?” the witch said. “Learned some things,” Sable said, wolfing down the rest of the rabbit at once. Partly to get the spit out of her hand, but mostly because it made Madame wrinkle her nose. “That scarecrow guard can’t leave. I’m sure of it now.” She almost added more. That the scarecrow, or Strawman as he called himself, was kinda weird. That he was keeping secrets. That he seemed more real than just an enchanted object. But if she shared that Madame would definitely push her to exploit it, and though that would normally be a good idea, right now, Sable was curious. She wanted to know what he was. Where he fit in the story of her life. So instead she said, “Hey, what’s a petrichor?” Madame raised her brows at her, looking slightly exasperated. “It is a type of magical plant. A common name for it is a rain bean. It’s one of the more basic plants a witch can grow.” “How do they work?” “You plant them, and when the ground gets hot enough, they break themselves open. The sprout grows rapidly, taller than houses, and eventually it blooms into a rain cloud.” “But how do you make them?” Madame looked even more exasperated. “From another plant, dear. A magical plant doesn’t work much differently from any other plant just because it’s magical.” “Yeah, but where did the first seeds come from? It’s not like they’re natural. And there weren’t any giant beanstalks in that garden; they were on a regular-sized plant. So why do some grow big and others grow small? And why–” Logan 43 “Those would be garden witch questions, dear, but I’ll let you know once I become one. Now, tell me what happened when you went out to her garden today. Any progress?” “Well, I saw the witch. I guess she was gone, but now she’s back. I had to wait a while for her to go inside. She was younger than most of the others, but she was weird.” Madame pursed her lips. “You think everyone is weird. Be specific.” “She just yelled and stomped around a lot.” Madame rolled her eyes. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to be classified as weird, but Sable still maintained her opinion. The witch was weird. But so was anything magical. Sable felt pretty weird herself most of the time. “And the scarecrow?” Sable shrugged. “I mean, we talked a little. But he was watching me like a hawk.” She used her thumb and forefinger to pull her eyes wide in demonstration. “Probably would have strangled me if he got the chance.” “No doubt.” “What is he?” Seeming, if not pleased, at least satisfied with the report, Madame sat down at her desk and opened one of the books, glancing back and forth between the page and her bowl as she spoke. “From your description, I believe it’s some sort of golem, one made of wood instead of clay. If its owner is a garden witch, I wouldn’t be surprised if she grew it. But it shouldn’t function much differently from any regular golem. They need rules to function, and I’m guessing one of those rules counteracted the runes I gave you, which explains why they didn’t work. What’s important is finding out what those rules are, and working around them.” Well, that sounded impossible. Or at least a lot of work. Logan 44 “But if he has to follow rules, that means we can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to. We can’t even convince him to do anything.” Madame looked up, gaze sharp. “It means it has limits. Those rules may be protecting it now, but they can be as much a weakness as a strength. Understand?” Sable bowed her head.“Yes, Madame.” “Good.” Madame turned back to her book and scrybowl. “Then keep scouting the area, find the bleedbeads, and learn those rules.” Chapter Four The Strawman stood very still. He held his arms outstretched, palms turned toward the sky. The mealy, white grubs in his hands wriggled blindly, angry at having been snatched from under the rocks at the very back of the garden and forced out into the daylight. Long tendrils of ivy unraveled from the straight-backed trellis leaned against the house’s garden-facing wall, their large, star-shaped leaves barely making a rustle as they extended their bodies to 5 feet, 6 feet, 8 feet of length. They hovered in the gap, swaying as if caught in a nonexistent breeze. A worm squirmed over the edge of the Strawman’s hands, plopping heavily to the earth. In an instant, the vines lunged toward the movement. The longest tendril seized upon it first, coiling around it tight and retreating back into the greater mass of growth. Foiled but emboldened a few remaining vines stretched into the Strawman’s hands, tickling his palms as they snuffled their lunch. They began plucking worms like a bird plucking seeds, rapid and aggressive. Logan 45 Beside him, Mabin tossed the worms haphazardly to the ground, dancing in and out of the vines’ reach. This only seemed to rile the vines, and they writhed and flicked in the air, rising like the limbs of some bigger beast. “Just take them!” Mabin shouted and threw the entire handful of worms out in front of her. One strand of ivy sprang at the movement, striking Mabin’s palm with a loud SMACK! “Ow!” Mabin barked and, clutching her hand to her chest, stomped one foot forward in feigned aggression. All the ivy strands rose up like snakes, rattling their leaves threateningly. “Oh, you want to play?” Mabin bit out, “How about this? Behave, or I’ll tear out each and every one of you!” The ivy ducked away from her, joining the Strawman’s batch in curling around his arms and neck. Mabin glared, rubbing at the growing welt on her palm. “And why are they so chummy with you?” “Because I don’t throw things at them?” the Strawman said, stroking one of the leaves tickling his cheek. “Hmph. I’m asserting dominance.” She surveyed him for a moment. “Maybe they just aim to eat you.” If the Strawman could roll his eyes, as Mabin so frequently did, he would have. He seriously doubted the vines had any interest in eating something made out of straw, burlap, and wood. At most, they probably saw him as another resting place, like their trellis. Still, the comment did provoke some interesting thoughts. “Could they actually eat a whole person?” Logan 46 “These ones?” Mabin snorted. “No. They could do some damage, but the biggest thing I’ve seen them catch is a rat. But I have heard stories of abandoned places, buildings or old walls where their growth goes unchecked, and there is no master to serve. Those might eat someone.” The Strawman tried to imagine an ivy bunch that big, growing past the trellises and engulfing the entire house, maybe the shed too. Yes, he could see that being a problem. But it also wasn’t a bad idea. He looked out at the garden, with its open borders and exposed vegetation. “You sell these as guard plants, right? Why don’t we have any on the perimeter?” Mabin followed his gaze, pursing her lips. “I hate big walls,” she said eventually. “They muck up the view. That’s why I built a home way out here, so there wouldn’t be anyone around to keep out. Except for the stray traveler, but that’s why I’ve got you.” And now people from the villages. The Strawman still didn’t know if he should mention that. Mabin would be more mad now than before. It was probably fine. It had been a few days since the attempt, and nothing had happened. If they were going to try again, they probably would have done it by now. But then…he didn’t know how far the nearest villages were from the garden. Past the wood? Farther? How much farther was there? He supposed a lot if the length of Mabin’s trips was anything to judge by. Mabin peered at her angry red palm and hissed through her teeth. “Fine, you win this time.” She was already walking away as she muttered under her breath, “Overgrown bunch of weeds.” The Strawman shrugged off the hugging vines and followed after her to the house, stepping quietly on the stairs in case the creaky wood annoyed her enough to send him away. He Logan 47 kept one foot on the step and the other just over the threshold, his grip on the doorframe keeping him solidly balanced as he hung halfway inside. The inside of the house looked like an amalgamation of a building and a hollow tree. Dried herbs and flowers hung in upside down bunches from rafters, a stone fireplace embedded the back wall, and storage space existed beneath carefully laid floorboards, but despite these signs of craftsmanship, the walls and ceiling were one solid piece of wood. Beneath the floorboards, the house's roots ran deep into the earth, binding it to the spot. The large, rounded room was filled to the brim with the stuff, but it felt more cozy than messy. Mabin rifled through the row of jars on one of the shelves, selecting a long, brown one along with a scrap of fabric from the sewing basket shoved under her work desk. Retreating to the corner and plopping down on the nest of quilts and blankets on her bed. “Where is Brinnt?” the Strawman asked. Mabin was now struggling to open the jar while holding it in the crook of her elbow, but she took a moment to peer up through her curls. “Why the hell do you want to know that?” “I just wondered if it was far. You were there a week, but I don’t know how to imagine it.” Mabin paused for a long moment, but eventually she pointed ahead of her where a large map covered up most of the wall. “Brinnt is that blue pin. And I was only there for three days. The journey was longer, two days there and two more back.” The strawman took a cautious step inside, then another and another until the map was only a few inches from his face. He’d never gotten this far inside before. Everything smelled like parchment and plant life. Logan 48 The blue pin was planted next to a bunch of black squiggles. A few other pins sat next to similar squiggles, each a little different, but he couldn’t tell much more than that. He had been alive for almost two years now, picking up most things rapidly, but the moment he began asking questions he had realized that he hadn’t been born with immediate knowledge or understanding. “And where are we?” “The green one. Kesta.” She sighed as she finally got the jar open, pulling out a whole sprig of something spindly and gray-leafed. “I never ground these up. Grab me that mortar and pestle, will ya.” “I can do it,” he said, sparing a last glance between the two pins that didn’t seem too far apart before taking the sprig and sitting staunchly at the work table. Mabin blinked at him, then her brow began to furrow but she must have decided halfway toward an argument that getting help would be faster than trying to use her injured hand. “Grind it up really good, it should be practically a powder.” The Strawman nodded and got to work with pestle, his inability to tire or feel strain making the process a lot faster than what he’d watched Mabin do in the past. Still, she watched him critically, like any one of his movements could turn into a disaster. “Can you teach me how to understand those?” he said, jutting his chin toward the map, drawing her gaze away for a couple seconds. “The writing?” Mabin snorted. “A scarecrow learning to read? No.” “Why?” “What do you mean, why? I don’t have the time, and that’s not your job. Simple as that.” Logan 49 The statement struck the Strawman like a stone. Right. Of course. He had a job. A very specific, very important job, and he was suggesting distractions. He’d been too lax these last few days, paying too much attention to his own curiosities and that crow. He– The scrape of the pestle brought him out of his thoughts. The plant had been completely pulverized, and now there was barely anything to grind except for the mortar’s stone wall. Mabin stretched out her hand for the bowl, promptly dumping half the contents onto her welt and rubbing it in like silvery chalk. Once the entire palm was covered, she tied the scrap of fabric around it so the powder wouldn’t rub off. “There.” She extended her hand in front of her to admire her work. “That should speed up the healing.” Her gaze drifted to the Strawman, and she frowned. “Don’t look so mopey.” The Strawman didn’t think he looked anything, but he tried to straighten up a little anyway. Mabin only shook her head and pushed to her feet, clomping past him without a second glance. “Come on, I want to show you something.” The Strawman lengthened his stride to keep up, past the flower garden, past the vegetable trellises, past the ivy and right to… the shed. Fear struck him like a stone. Did Mabin know about the other day? Had the sickle been a little off in its placement? Was she going to ask him what he was doing, getting out tools meant for harvest time? He wasn’t ready to talk about the beans or hand them over. He could still hide the part with the crow returning– No, he shouldn’t be hiding anything at all! As they stepped into the dusty dark, he had just made up his mind to come clean about everything when Mabin completely ignored the sickle and instead pulled back the hidden panel in the back wall that was not actually the back wall. Logan 50 The strawman stared as Mabin squeezed through, and he was staring still when she ducked her head back through, waving an arm impatiently. “Coming?” “Y-yes!” The Strawman hastened through the space. He had never been in here before. He’d pulled open a part of the roof to let the moonlight in when it was full, but that was the extent of his involvement with the bleedbead bush. Now it sprouted in front of him, its ruddy, arterial stalk barely reaching his hip, the smaller branches spreading veinlike from its center. Tiny berries beaded the smallest twigs, like tiny droplets of blood that at any moment might drip off into the soil. “Bush, Strawman, Strawman, Bush,” Mabin said, waving between them. “Since some crazy person is targeting her, I suppose you should be a little more informed.” She said it offhandedly, but the Strawman knew that this was a big deal. Otherwise, the bleedbead bush would have been part of his tasks from the start. “Bush,” he said, nodding toward it awkwardly. Mabin plopped cross-legged on the ground, patting the space next to her. “This is the heart of the garden. The heart of my power. The magic behind everything that grows here is because of this plant.” “How does it work? Where did you get it?” Mabin shoved up her mass of dark curls, revealing a round white scar between her 7th and 8th vertebrae. The Strawman frowned. “Are you saying…the bleedbead bush grew out of you?” “Right-o.” Mabin released her hair and shook it back into place. “But…how?” Logan 51 “Most witches don’t learn magic. It’s something innate, something in their flesh since birth. It manifests differently for each kind, but in the case of garden witches, it manifests like a plant.” “Does it…hurt?” The Strawman didn’t know much about pain, but he did know that things with flesh usually didn’t like it torn, and that scar spoke of a tear. “Nah. It’s like hair. Or fingernails. It’s just a part of us. Though the deeper it grows into you, the more impossible it becomes to remove. Roots, you know?” The Strawman did not, but he nodded anyway. He pictured the plant in front of him growing from a person, the roots delving around bones and muscles and organs. It defied everything he knew about living creatures. Though, it did spur a question in him. “If it’s normal, why would you remove it at all?” “Ah, that is the question.” Mabin leaned back on her hands. “A lot of the older generation don’t. They walk around with great big bushes on their backs, much bigger than this one if they’re powerful enough. But aside from not wanting to lug a big plant everywhere you go, transplanting it empowers the land, too. I can grow a plant anywhere, but it’s much easier here where the power has spread into the earth. What’s more it’s dangerous to wear your power out in the open. Many of us learned long ago that it’s best to hide it away where no one can touch it.” She grit her teeth a little as she added, “Then no one knows what you are either.” The Strawman wouldn’t comment on that. Mabin had made it clear on a few occasions her utter disdain for outsiders, even those she sold to, but she didn’t seem interested in explaining anything to him. Instead, he tried to steer back to another question, an important one. “So, to do garden magic, you need one of these plants?” “I already said that, didn’t I?” Logan 52 “There isn’t any other way?” “Like what?” Mabin said. “Wishing on a star? No. This is how it works. The plant is me, and I am the plant. We’re connected. Anyway, enough questions, that’s not what you’re here for. I’m going to teach you some precautions when guarding the bleedbeads.” She waved him in a little closer, and the Strawman mimicked her new pose, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned toward the blood-red bush. “Ideally, the plant shouldn’t be handled by anyone but me,” she said, tracing her finger around the bush’s perimeter, “but in case someone finds it, you should dig a circle around it, at least a foot long, carefully, and I mean carefully, shovel it out, and transplant it into a different hiding place. Water it into the new spot just like any of the other plants.” That was all well and good but the Strawman didn’t imagine that most intruders were going to give him a warning. “What if I don’t have time for that?” he said. “In the very worst case scenario, prune off a branch, more than one branch if possible, and we propagate a new bush. I would hate it, but it’s better than losing the entire thing. If that happens, you destroy the rest of the bush, you got that?” She pointed her index finger into his face. “Destroy it.” “But if you’re connected…” “Yes, yes, if any harm were to come to either of us, it would affect the other. If I die, it dies. If it dies, I lose my power forever. So, let’s try not to do anything drastic, but if it comes to that… Well, you’ll do what you have to do. You’re good at that.” The Strawman wasn’t sure how he felt about that statement. On one hand, he liked that Mabin felt she could rely on him, and it was his duty to do whatever she asked of him. But on the Logan 53 other hand, he didn’t like the implication that he would do anything without question. Yet, when he thought about it, Mabin wasn’t wrong. He had never hesitated to use violence on trespassers who refused to leave, nor to eliminate any animal garden pests. This ask wasn’t any different. But for some reason, it still set him on edge. He wouldn’t let Mabin see that, though. She created him, and he would fulfill the purpose of his creation. Instead, he just nodded at her. He probably was thinking too hard anyway.