Barnaby's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Barnaby had guarded the gates of Halloween Town for longer than he could count, and he had never once wanted to leave them. He was a scarecrow stitched from vines and old cloth, with a pumpkin face carved into a grumpy grin. He fixed the hinges himself years ago, when the wood was split and no one else had noticed. Travelers got three tries at his riddle or nothing. That was the rule. He liked the rule. He liked the quiet. Tonight the quiet broke. A crow dropped out of the dark and landed on his shoulder. But the crow landed backwards, tail toward the road, facing the town behind him. Caw cocked his head and clicked his beak, sharp and excited, not afraid. Barnaby frowned. His crows only faced his way when trouble came up the road. This was something else. The wind answered. A square of paper tumbled through the gate bars and stuck to his chest. It glittered gold. Candy-corn charms jingled along its edge. COSTUME CONTEST, it read. Join the spooky fun. Below, in smaller letters: a Golden Gourd trophy and a rave in the town square. Barnaby peeled the flyer off and held it in his glove. He meant to crumple it. He always crumpled things. Instead his carved grin flickered. Behind him, faint through the fog, he heard thumping music and people laughing. He had scared crows off that square for years. He had never stood in it. "No," he said to Caw. "I guard the gate." Caw hopped down to the latch and pecked it twice, then looked at Barnaby and spread his wings wide, bouncing. Hype, that bounce said. Go. Barnaby looked at the empty road. No traveler. No threat. Just the music, and the flyer sticking to his glove like it refused to let go. A small want pushed up through the vines in his chest. He wanted to go. Just once. He wanted to wear something that wasn't a grumpy face. He wanted to win. "If I leave," he said slowly, "the gate stays open." Caw clicked, unbothered. Barnaby reached down and lifted the latch. The gate swung inward with a long creak he had oiled away years ago and let rust back tonight. He stepped through. His straw feet hit the road to town for the first time. Behind him the gate hung open, unguarded, a gap wide enough to walk a horse through. He did not look back. He tucked the golden flyer into his vines and walked toward the music, Caw riding his shoulder. "We're going to that contest," Barnaby said. "And we're going to win it." The fog swallowed the open gate behind him. Somewhere in the dark beyond it, something that had been waiting felt the way clear.