Lena Bright's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Lena waited in the dirt through a whole day and half a night. When the moon rose, she climbed out and set two teacups on a flat stone. Then she remembered the problem. Oliver was coming back to see the secret playhouse. But the playhouse sat far past the graves, near the fence line. Her rope would not let her walk him there. If he wandered the wrong way, he would leave. She might never see him again. She needed a guide that could move where she could not. A scarecrow leaned in the corner of the cemetery. Its burlap face had two dark, empty eyes. Lena had never touched it before. She pressed her cold hand to its stitched mouth and hummed through the cracked music box. The dancers on top spun faster. The scarecrow's arm twitched. Straw rustled. Its hollow eyes turned toward her, and Lena smiled. Now she had feet that could carry her voice. Morning came slow. By afternoon, footsteps crunched near the gate. Oliver slipped through the bars. His too-big pants dragged in the dirt, and tape wrapped one sneaker. He grinned at the quiet rows of stones like they were a fair. "You came back," Lena said from her grave. "Told you I would." He kicked a pebble. "Where's the secret place?" Lena's chest ached toward him. She could not lead him. So she pointed at the scarecrow. "He'll show you. Follow him." Oliver walked toward the far fence. He stopped at a split path. The wrong way led back to the gate. Lena strained against her rope and could not follow. "This way?" Oliver called, turning toward the gate. "No," Lena whispered, but her voice died in the empty rows. Then the scarecrow moved. Its stiff legs dragged forward. Its straw arm lifted and pointed down the right path. Oliver froze. His mouth fell open. "Whoa," he breathed. "It's alive." He did not run. He laughed and chased after it. The scarecrow limped ahead, past a weeping willow with dark red roots. Oliver stayed close. Lena hummed louder, and the music box guided them both. At the end of the path stood the little house. Vines crawled up its gray boards. Boards covered the windows. A crooked sign hung over the door. Oliver climbed the sagging porch and touched the door. "This is the coolest place ever," he said. "Can we play in here tomorrow? A real game. Just us." "Yes," Lena said, though she stood far behind him at her stone. "Tomorrow. Inside." Oliver ran off before dark, waving as he went. The scarecrow returned to its corner and went still. Lena sank into her grave, pleased. She had solved it. Her scarecrow could lead him now. But a new worry crept in. Tomorrow Oliver wanted to play inside the house. And the hole she needed sat in her grave, far from that door. She had to bring him back to her.