Eerie fic: Harvest
Written for the Full Moon/Harvest challenge:
The full moon is pumpkin-orange and hangs low over the cornfields of Eerie on the night the Harvest King is sent to die. His parents are already dressed in the mourning garb that they will wear for the rest of their lives, and behind the closed and locked doors of the World o' Stuff, the Mayor eats barbequed ribs and checks the market prices for that year's crop.
Now that the reaping is over, the scarecrows who all year long have stood guard over the ripening fields climb down from their crosses, stretch their limbs and slap each other on the back, congratulating themselves on yet another successful growing season. They laugh and drink and dance in the orange moonlight, a reward for a job well done.
When the 1979 Harvest King stumbles, wild-eyed and bloody, into the midst of their revels, the scarecrows scatter with a cry of alarm. But the interloper wears a crown of twigs and berries and yellow corn, and as he kneels panting in the stover, and his blood drips and pools on the ground, they remember themselves and return to give shambling, loose-limbed obeisance to the lord of the crops.
In scratchy, tattered clothing that reeks of mice and rotting straw, the 1979 Harvest King eludes the Eerie Wolf, escapes over the border into Illinois, and eventually boards a freighter bound for Europe. He sends his parents postcards from Spain, unsigned, and knows they can never risk responding in kind. Instead, they leave bundles of fresh straw and clean, pressed clothing on their doorstep during a harvest moon, and remain dour and taciturn in public.
The double-dip recession of the eighties does not quite pass Eerie by, although they still fare better than most, and the Mayor decides that the 1992 Harvest King will be as close to thirteen as he can manage, because the old, old things that dwell beneath the earth need young blood if they are to keep his town sated and happy and under his control.
The full moon is pumpkin-orange and hangs low over the cornfields of Eerie on the night the Harvest King is sent to die. His parents are already dressed in the mourning garb that they will wear for the rest of their lives, and behind the closed and locked doors of the World o' Stuff, the Mayor eats barbequed ribs and checks the market prices for that year's crop.
Now that the reaping is over, the scarecrows who all year long have stood guard over the ripening fields climb down from their crosses, stretch their limbs and slap each other on the back, congratulating themselves on yet another successful growing season. They laugh and drink and dance in the orange moonlight, a reward for a job well done.
When the 1979 Harvest King stumbles, wild-eyed and bloody, into the midst of their revels, the scarecrows scatter with a cry of alarm. But the interloper wears a crown of twigs and berries and yellow corn, and as he kneels panting in the stover, and his blood drips and pools on the ground, they remember themselves and return to give shambling, loose-limbed obeisance to the lord of the crops.
In scratchy, tattered clothing that reeks of mice and rotting straw, the 1979 Harvest King eludes the Eerie Wolf, escapes over the border into Illinois, and eventually boards a freighter bound for Europe. He sends his parents postcards from Spain, unsigned, and knows they can never risk responding in kind. Instead, they leave bundles of fresh straw and clean, pressed clothing on their doorstep during a harvest moon, and remain dour and taciturn in public.
The double-dip recession of the eighties does not quite pass Eerie by, although they still fare better than most, and the Mayor decides that the 1992 Harvest King will be as close to thirteen as he can manage, because the old, old things that dwell beneath the earth need young blood if they are to keep his town sated and happy and under his control.