The Arbiter Excerpt Chapter 2

A soft breeze awakens me. I lay flat on my back, down in the dirt. Tall stalks of wheat peer over me, appearing concerned. The sky is purple. Not some sort of sunset reddened blue, just purple. I rub my eyes and check again. Still purple. Though I ache from stiffness, I get to my feet. The stalks of wheat still block my sight. Awfully tall, aren’t they? I don’t even think corn grows this high. As a test, I touch one of the stalks. The stem folds like paper but the head is feather soft. They feel so real. A moment passes. I look up again. Directly above, I see a pitch black circle in the purple sky. Though it does not shine, my eyes water when I look at it. A black sun. From it, a drop of ink falls towards my foot. It misses and splashes on the ground. A black blotch on sound soil. I go hands on hips. Hmm. I ought to be more terrified.

I start walking on wheat stalks. With my arms I push them away and with my legs I hold them to the ground. If I don’t, the stalks flick back at me, hitting my face. Whack. Like that. I continue to trudge along anyway. It is impossible to see a path out in this wheatfield. All I see are shades of yellow that darken into brown. Even if I knew a way out, I don’t even have the will to escape. Anything but the festival. This will all pass, I’m sure. This is another one of those daydreams. Whack. Admittedly, this one is extremely vivid. These delicate slaps (or violent caresses, both work) of these wheat stalks seems too difficult to imagine. I am never this lucid either. Whack. The wheat agrees. I have felt more lucid today than I have in years. Maybe now, as I near the end, I have finally awakened from a sleepwalk. Maybe I have been dreaming for decades, never knowing I was asleep. I wasted my life… Whack. You are quite right, Mr. Wheatstalk. That is melodramatic of me. How can I trust what I think right now? I’ll mull it over later. The sky is purple, after all. This is not real. Whack. I will open my eyes and this will all go away. Whack. I will return to my life. Whack. I wonder if Sarah is looking for me.

Bonk.

Ouch. Right to the forehead. That hit like a horse’s kick. This hurts more than the blow this morning. In fact, that surface felt like wood. That could not have been a wheat stalk. In front of me is an oak wood plank, dodged upright into the dirt. I follow the withered wooden post from its dirt pedestal up to the… two legs dangle lightly in the wind. My eyes dart upwards, expecting a corpse. It’s a scarecrow. 
The scarecrow wears gray pants, with bits of hay bursting out the hems. It has one and a half suspenders; one is torn, peeling over its black belt which skews its waistline. Its tucked-in, buttoned shirt that may have once been white, is now beaten into brown. The scarecrow’s lanky arms stretch across the board before splintering into hands of hay. At both its wrinkled wrists and ankles the scarecrow is stapled to the wood, letting its unfastened shoulders loom over me. It wears a pointy gray hat; the loose threads poke out like electrocuted hair. Yet the most striking detail is its featureless face; the scarecrow’s aspect is nothing more than a potato bag over its head. Its head droops down at me, dead and dejected. Poor thing. The least its creator could do was scribble up a smile. I’m just relieved it wasn’t a hanged man. 
I walk around the scarecrow’s post and go about my business. 
Psst. Hm? Amid the rustling of wheat stalks I hear something. I look around. I see nothing. Just more stalks. The breeze is picking up. I continue onwards. 
“Psst.”
Again. There it was again. That wasn’t the wind. I look around again. I see nothing, again. It almost sounds like someone’s trying to whisper to me. But there’s no one… oh no.
nd a half suspenders; the other one is torn, peeling over its black belt which skews its waistline. Its tucked-in, buttoned shirt looks as though it may have once been white, now beaten into brown. The scarecrow’s lanky arms stretch across the board before splintering into hands of hay. At both its wrinkled wrists and ankles the scarecrow is stapled to the wood, letting its unfastened shoulders loom over me. It wears a pointy gray hat; the loose threads poke out like electrocuted hair. Yet the most striking detail is its featureless face; the scarecrow’s aspect is nothing more than a potato bag over its head. Its head droops down at me, dead and dejected. Poor thing—the least its creator could do was scribble up a smile. I’m just relieved it wasn’t a hanged man. 
Oh well. That’s that. It’s nice to have a break from the stalks, but not worth the scare. I still have to find my way out of here. I walk around the scarecrow’s post and go about my business. 
Psst. 
Hm? Amid the rustling of wheat stalks I hear something different. I look around. I see nothing. Just more stalks. The breeze is picking up. I continue onwards. 
“Psst.”
Again. There it was again. That isn’t the wind. I look around again. I see nothing, again. It almost sounds like someone’s trying to whisper to me. But there’s no one… oh no.

The scarecrow convulses violently. Its blank, bag-skin face bulges and bubbles like something’s boiling below the surface; some foul thing must be trying to escape. I try to back away, but I go nowhere. My ankles are stuck between stepped-on wheat stalks. As I try to untangle myself, the stalks almost seem to delicately coil around my ankles, subtly suggesting I stay and watch. I hear the sound of a drum. The scarecrow’s body beats itself against the board, rocking the plank back and forth. I’m going to die, aren’t I? Yet—either out of paralyzing fear or some vile curiosity—I stay and watch. The rocking stops. I hear a wretched ripping noise. The scarecrow’s bag-skin face begins to tear a bit above the chin. An acute line cuts across its visage, like a mouth. Two small holes appear adjacent to one another. Nostrils. It’s growing a face. As the body continues to convulse, the bag-skin begins to burn above the nose. Smoke envelops its face. Then the shaking stops. I fall to the ground, aghast. The smoke rises into the purple sky, unmasking its new aspect. Its eyes are like flames, dancing red around its wick-black pupils. The devilish thing locks eyes with me. Its head tilts right. Silence. The scarecrow smiles, a smile so big it bisects its face.
“Hiya there!” it exclaims. 
“AAAAAUUUUUUGGHHH!!!” I wail. I scamper away like a mouse.

My fear-fueled legs send me careening face-first into the stalks. What the hell is that thing!? Just as I think I’ve made ground I see something. Between the stalks swing two legs. 
“Ayyy where ya goin’?” the thing asks. The scarecrow appears again. I scream and scramble back the other way. How? How?! I was running in the opposite direction. I look back while I sprint. Shoulders, eyes, its hat, all disappear from view. The scarecrow’s image submerges below the wheat. The very curvature of the earth obstructs my view of—BONK. I see sparkling stars. I crashed into something. Something wooden…no… no, no, no, don’t be—
“Woah there, mishter,” it says, appearing again. I can feel its breath. I slowly peek up at the nightmarish creature. The thing stretches towards me until we are face to face. Up this close, I can hear its infernal eyes sizzle and I can see at least seven layers of honey-colored hell. The ends of his zany smile seem to wrap around the fringes of its face.
“Hey, I don’t bite,” it whispers. The inhuman scarecrow opens its jaw wide as a treasure chest. The monster’s mouth houses thousands of dead grass blades. They each shudder under its burning breath yet are sharper than razors. This must be what miserable sailors see as they’re devoured by ravenous sharks. Mouth still open, the thing says: 
“Lug! nuh tee ah all.” A tear rolls down my face. I dart off again but silently—I am beyond screaming. But again, the scarecrow meets me, smiling menacingly. Again and again and again I run and I run and I run but still I keep finding that fiend in front of me.
“Ekshuse me, shir, but why ya goin’ in shircles?” the scarecrow giggles. 
“Huh?!?”
“Shircles,” it repeats. “Ya know, round shquares.” Circles? That can’t be. That thing is chasing me—I know it! Or perhaps I’m so panicked I really am running in circles.
“Hey…don’t look at me like I’m inshane,” it pleads. I run away once again, with all I have left. Coughing and wheezing, I realize I can’t run forever. This is some sort of trap. Somehow he appears wherever he wants to—or maybe he can control my mind? Whatever’s happening, I don’t see a way out.
“Mmm…done runnin’?” it asks, in front of me again. Its grin fades into a bored pout. I die like this? Just as I realize I wasted it all, then, and only then, is my life snatched away from me! Frustration, terror, despair, and a stomach ache are life’s parting gifts to me. I wanted more. I should have… wait a minute—I can still die a martyr. 
“I don’t know what you are, or how I got here. But please, if you’re gonna kill me, make it quick.” I brace myself, waiting for impact. 
“Kill ya?” it replies, confused. “O’ coursh not! I’m jusht gonna EATCHA! Yehahaha!” The thing laughs hysterically, bouncing on each breath. Of all the ways I thought I might die, I had never imagined ending up at the bottom of an animated, giggling, s-whistling scarecrow’s stomach. But a bite never arrives.

“I’m jusht kiddin’ mishter,” it chuckles. Not only is it a demon, but worse, a comedian. Just my luck. I bet its friendly demeanor is some predatory tactic to lure me in and then, yes, eat me. 
“Hey don’t be afraid, fella. I know it ain’t everyday ya shee a shcarecrow, but really, I can’t hurtcha. Sheerioushly, I can’t even move my legs! Ye-ha!” he says, proud of his own joke. 
The freak’s looks play tricks on me; its smirk is silly yet its fiery eyes roar orange. And, for some reason, the aberration always tilts its head, out of concern or condescension or curiosity. What I do know (I think) is that those staples are stuck on tight to that board. Only at the wrists and elbows, though, which lets it stretch its chest a few feet off the wood. Besides squirming around, the scarecrow cannot move. I look at its legs swing lifelessly. The demon cannot attack me. So I take a breath to collect myself. I get to my feet, though slowly, as to not let it leave my sight. On my way up, its grin doesn’t twitch an inch. The scarecrow seems relentlessly happy. 
“Just… answer me this: what the hell are you?”
“A shcarecrow, duh.”