When Autumn Dies

As Sam spun around, the breeze brushed his rosy, weathered cheeks as he gazed at the rising sun streaking the sky with delicate shades of pink and mauve. From a nearby oak, a fluty, melodic whistle began the morning symphony to accompany the show. The land’s awakening held a unique quality. From Sam’s vantage point, he could see the orchard; the branches laden with ripe fruit: plump pears with velvety skin and large, rosy-hued apples. All around the fields stretched like a golden ocean, their stalks swaying in the breeze, as the dawn chorus broke with the cockerel’s cry, meaning work was about to begin.

A scurrying below alerted Sam that the mice were making their way home. A gentle rub brushed against his trousered legs, and there stood Gus, the cantankerous farmhouse cat.

“Hey Gus, you will need to be quick if you want to catch the mice today. They are up early and are now heading for their nests.”

Gus shot Sam a haughty glance, a stare only a cat can give.

“Do I seem as if I am interested in catching mice? Mice hunting requires little skill; any old tom can do that. I’m planning to head to the pond to attempt scooping a fish. I will have you know fish is much tastier than boring old mice.”

With the workday looming, Sam’s good-natured boss made his timely appearance. Every morning he stopped for a word before starting work. As usual, he tapped Sam on the shoulder.

“It’s a good day to shave the corn, eh, lad?”

A whirling wind caused Sam to swivel round, his arm sending the farmer flying. The farmer laughed, his fat belly shaking.

“Almost had me there, lad. I will be busy now harvesting and gathering fruit. It’s been a good year, one of our best, but it won’t be long before autumn ends; the trees are already shedding their leaves. ‘Tis sad when autumn dies, still, the cycle of life will start again. Anyway, chatting won’t get the work done, eh?”

As the farmer made his way towards his tractor, a few leaves settled at Sam’s feet. He wondered what the farmer meant about autumn dying and the cycle of life. A crow was hovering, time for Sam to spin round again and scare the blighter away.

There was a definite chill in the air as the days grew shorter. Gus, having passed by one morning, stopped and rubbed himself up against Sam’s fraying legs.

“Jack Frost is on his way, so I hear the farmer’s wife say. You haven’t met him, have you?” purred Gus.

Sam hadn’t and wondered what he was like, so he asked.

A stretch from Gus before he hissed,

“One of those obnoxious creatures who thinks he is something special. Freezing everything in sight. How am I supposed to fish if he turns the pond into a skating rink?”

Gus was lashing his tail, a sure sign he was in a mood.

Sam hauled himself up higher before replying.

“What do you mean he freezes everything?”

Gus extended his claws, sharpening them against the wooden post.

“Just what I say. His icy breath freezes everything in sight. Can you imagine the struggle I face digging a hole to do my business only to hit frozen solid ground? He believes freezing everything without regard for anyone is fun,” Gus spat.

Gus licked his paws as he looked at Sam again.

“By the way, your jacket is hanging loose; it looks like you are losing some of your padding again,” he purred.

As Gus’s tail flicked through the air, he made his way to the farm, and Sam remained lost in thought about Gus’s words. Just a few days ago, the farmer had pulled the string tighter to keep Sam’s trousers up. His hair was dry and crunchy, breaking off in little bits. He wore a worn-out jacket, the fabric faded and frayed, while his arms hung loosely from the posts. Some more string that was what was needed along with some fresh straw for padding.

The heavy silence of uncertainty settled on Sam as the farmer stopped his usual visits. As Sam reached out towards the farm, the straw resting on his shoulder creaked softly. A crisp chill filled the atmosphere, the nights settled into silence, and the mice had disappeared. Early one morning, a sharp snap echoed as Sam’s carrot nose dropped onto the earth below. Where was the farmer? Sam had already lost the buttons on his jacket; he was losing his padding, and now his nose had disappeared.

He craned his neck towards the farmhouse, but saw no sign of the farmer. The earth beneath him was moist, lightly covered with a thin layer of white. Gus was approaching; he would ask him where the farmer was.

Gus yawned, one eye half-closed as he looked up at Sam.

“Farmer has been busy; he needed to get everything done before winter sets in. That white you see? That’s the first frost showing up. Surprised you didn’t see old Jack up to mischief last night. Farmer’s wife was saying he is due to come again tonight,” Gus grumbled.

Sam wasn’t bothered about Jack. He needed repairs, and the farmer was the man to do them.

“Gus, the farmer needs to come and patch me up. Any idea when he’s gonna show up?”

Gus yawned again.

“No idea, but if Jack freezes the pond, the ice will stop my fishing, so I’ll have to look for something else to occupy myself. Anyway, I can’t stop; my breakfast will be ready soon.”

The day seemed to drag with no sign of anyone. The sun went down to be replaced by a bright, shining moon that cast shadows across the fields. Sam glimpsed a shadowy figure dancing through the hedgerows, leaving behind a trail of delicate, silvery threads. Brr, a freezing wind swirled around Sam just as a striking figure appeared before him, dressed in silver with spiked hair. Sam shivered as an icy hand grazed his cheek.

“Well, what do we have here? A ragged scarecrow that has seen better days. Even the birds no longer fear you,” his finger prodded Sam’s face.

Was this Jack Frost? What did he mean the birds no longer feared him? The figure circled before facing him once more.

“By the way, I am the legendary Jack Frost,” he declared, the chill of his words hinting at the frost in the air. “No doubt you have heard of me? I see you are staring at my hair, impressive, isn’t it? Icicles, I turn all I see to ice, and I’m just about to decide if you will be frozen as well.”

The hair was something to behold. Sam wasn’t sure what freezing meant, but he had better answer Jack.

“I am Sam, and I guard the fields.”

Jack threw his head back laughing.

“Guardian of the fields? Should it have escaped your attention, the fields are stripped bare beneath the grey sky, and you appear as a pitiful figure, abandoned and ignored. You are falling apart. Just look at you.”

To make his point clear, his hand went to Sam’s middle, seized a handful of straw, and flung it down.

“Where is the farmer? Of course, busy with the harvest. Don’t worry, I’m certain that when he comes back, you’ll be the first thing he sees as he clears away the debris. Well, whatever remains of you, that is.”

The farmer wouldn’t let that happen. Full of defiance, Sam looked Jack in the eye.

“The farmer will come long before then. He will mend me, and I’ll feel as good as new once again. You can’t scare me, Jack Frost.”

Jack threw back his head before another icy finger prodded Sam’s belly.

“Is that what you believe?” Why would he do that? He doesn’t need you anymore. Think it over: what function does a scarecrow serve when the fields stand deserted and still? No, just as those who came before you, you will be left here to decay, with no one to mourn or care.

With a swift motion, Jack encased Sam’s outstretched arms in a delicate web, the strands shimmering, before he sprinted toward the orchard. A sudden shiver passed through Sam’s body. Could there be any truth hidden in Jack’s words, as the surrounding quiet seemed to hold its breath? Until a few weeks ago, the farmer stopped by, his voice warm and gentle as he shared a kind word. Over the summer, he had packed Sam’s body with extra straw, and when the wind swept away his old hat, he placed a new one on him. The farmer seemed steadfast, yet there was a lingering doubt: would he abandon Sam? After all, Jack had a point. What use is a scarecrow when the once shimmering fields of gold are no more?