There was no ravens in the rye field, which is not surprising with such a scarecrow. If I were a little bit sensible crow - having met such a fearful scarecrow, I would fly to the Lasenberg Kingdom, screaming at the top of my throat with horror.

The scarecrow was unpleasant.

Unkind.

Evil.

It was sticking up on a stick, draped in a leaky soldier's uniform from the time of King George, in a wide-brimmed straw hat with disheveled fields pulled over his eyes. The black line of the mouth — an ominous grin all over his face — made think about his mental state.

"A smile, of course, scares," said the Priest.

I didn't answer, just twitched my shoulder, and he fell silent. I was more interested in the sickle in the scarecrow's right hand. It was covered with a strange brownish bloom. Perhaps rust, and maybe not.

I am not so curious to check. But, judging by the scaring smile, I would not be surprised if someone's bones lie somewhere in the border. Who knows what he going to do at night when a lone traveler appears around the moonlit fields and on a country road?

I threw another evaluative view at the scarecrow and said:

"Probably, you are angry because you have to stand in this forgotten place under the wind, rain and snow every day. And maybe you're tired of chasing the crows. If you want, you can join our small company. I do not promise that it will be interesting, but anything is better than standing around a rye field."

Having heard my words, the Priest burst out laughing and wiped the blood flowing from his temple:

"Why do you need this scarecrow, Andrew?"

"I want to."

He snorted, too loudly and theatrically, straightened up the bloody, long-white collar of his veil, but did not convince me to leave the idea, for which I was immensely grateful to him.

"What do you say?" I turned to the scarecrow.

He didn't show that heard me. Only the wind ruffled the hair sticking out from under the straw hat and bent the ears of wheat.

"Well, as you know," I told him indifferently, picking up my travel bag from the ground. "If you decide, catch up."

I walked away, and the Priest fell in step with me, singing. Priest is still that godless and blasphemer. Such as he, even in broad daylight you will not find. In the past years, he would gladly have been burned on the fire by monks, but now the times are not the same, and the Preacher often scoffs at colleagues dressed in black bathrobe. He gets away with it.