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By sunrise, Aziraphale Fell has already finished his tea and toast, the dregs cooling beside an unfinished book. On his way out the door, he pauses at the hallway mirror. He's wearing a starched shirt and a waistcoat with no business being out in the dirt. Trousers tucked into well-worn boots, suspenders he refuses to admit he needs. Even spattered with mud, he knows he looks less like a farmer and more like a man who’s wandered out of a comfortable chair and forgotten to go back inside.
He'd inherited this farm, deep in the Tadfield countryside, from a late uncle. Neighbours were scarce and the fog rarely lifted. He turns to his work to fill his days. And there’s always work.
He shrugs on his beige tartan coat and steps into the autumn air.
Something he’s been avoiding waits for him in the north field.
The cornfield stretches far and wide, whispering in the wind. Beyond it stands the scarecrow—a dark sliver against the gold. It's old and decrepit, and does nothing to frighten the crows. If anything, they seem drawn to it, perched on its outstretched arms like worshippers. They scatter only when Aziraphale comes near.
Today, he decides, he’ll tear it down.
After completing his morning chores, he unloads his tools and trudges towards the scarecrow.
Bound with fraying rope, it leans at an angle. Its coat, once fine black wool, tailored to a lean frame, is now stiff and sun-bleached. Long black trousers are stuffed into rotted boots. A black hat slung low over a crooked, hand-stitched grin.
It looks deliberate, as if someone meant to hide the thing's eyes.
He hesitates. There’s something about it that feels wrong to disturb. The way it slouches, the way it seems to wait. He tells himself he’s being foolish. Still, he can’t bring himself to do it. He turns back, pretending it’s simply too late in the day to start.
The next day, Aziraphale returns.
“Hello, my dear boy,” he quips cheerfully to the scarecrow. “Figured we could both use some company!”
He sets up a chair and table, and produces a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. He pours a glass for himself, and a second one for the scarecrow. It’s absurd, he knows, but no one’s there to see.
The following day, he's back again. “I think, rather than tear you down, I’d like to make an arrangement,” he says.
The scarecrow, of course, doesn’t reply.
“How about this— you keep the crows away, and I’ll stop by now and then. Seems fair, doesn’t it?”
Only the wind answers, sighing through the stalks.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Aziraphale says, smiling faintly. “And you’ll need a name. Crowley, I think. After your little admirers.”
In the days that follow, weather permitting, Aziraphale brings his lunch to the north field. Before long, he begins looking forward to it. He talks to Crowley as he eats— about the crops, the state of the roof, the novel on his bedside table. He always leaves a slice of bread and a glass of wine behind. The crows linger, but they don’t touch his fields. The wheat grows tall and strong.
One night, half-asleep over his book, Aziraphale wakes to a sound.
Footsteps on the porch— slow, dragging.
He peers out the window. No one’s there, but muddy prints streak the porch, littered with pieces of straw. His gaze inevitably drifts toward the north field. Under the moonlight, the scarecrow's post stands empty.
His heart thuds. There must be an explanation. Teenagers, perhaps. A prank.
Then comes the sound of branches rapping like fingernails against the front door. Panic rises like a tide, but Aziraphale forces it down, throws on his coat, and takes his shotgun and a torch.
He steps outside, sweeping the light across the garden. Nothing. He circles the farmhouse once, twice— until he reaches the porch again.
There, leaning against the doorframe, is the scarecrow.
The grin on its burlap face has been restitched— wider, hungrier.
Two slitted yellow eyes gleam.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispers, aghast.
Its voice is low and wrong, like something trying to remember how to sound human.
“Thank you for feeding me, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale raises his gun. “Go back to your post,” he warns.
“I’ve watched this land too long. Starved too long,” it says, yellow eyes aglow. “It’s your turn now.”
Aziraphale fires— and misses. The recoil sends him tumbling back.
He tries to run, but the wheat closes around him, whispering like a thousand voices. There’s nowhere to go.
At dawn, the north field is still.
The scarecrow stands once more upon its post— fatter, fresher, dressed in a familiar beige tartan coat and waistcoat.
The crows circle high, then settle, one by one, on its outstretched arms.