The villagers decided she was a witch. They exiled her to the desert, to die of heat exhaustion or go mad of thirst.
She did neither.
She made a scarecrow, constructed it out of rags and bone. She placed it near a trading route, and waited.
In verdant lands, a scarecrow repels. In this desolation, it did the opposite. Birds, travellers, stray children flocked to it, for water, for succour, for company.
She feasted like a queen on the flesh of lost things. Blood could quench any thirst. Their bones and clothes she hoarded.
Soon, another scarecrow joined the first.
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="And the Earth Shall Give Up Its Dead by Kristin Lennox"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Reunited by Darlene Holt"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="No More Littering by Arvee Fantilagan"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="My First Doll by B.G. Smith"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>