The Field by Clair Wright

“Get down!” Lisa flapped her arm urgently. I dropped to the ground behind the stalks at the edge of the field and shuffled closer on my haunches.

Lisa was eleven, two school years above me.  James and Andrew, aged twelve and from the next road, knelt ahead of us, further into the field. 

“What? What is it?” I whispered. 

“It’s the Crow Man!” Lisa pointed. “Up there!”

“Who?” I craned my neck towards the bridge across the motorway, which over-looked the field.  I couldn’t see anyone. “Who’s the Crow Man?”

“Shush!! He’ll see us!”

I crouched down lower. My legs started to prickle with pins and needles. 

“But who is he? What will he do if he sees us?”

The boys glanced back at Lisa, and she shook her head. She held her finger to her lips. 

“We can’t tell you,” mouthed James.  “Sorry.” 

I stared up at the bridge but I still couldn’t see anyone. The sun was harsh and my eyes smarted.

The stalks scratched my ankles and stuck into my bare feet in my sandals. I tried to shift my position, scared my head would bob above the waving heads of barley.

“Should we go?” I whispered to Lisa. I glanced behind me.  We were still close to the path which led between the back fences of the cul-de-sac. I thought I could reach it, if I ran fast.

“We can’t.  John’s disappeared. The Crow Man’s taken him.” 

“What? What do you mean?” I looked towards Andrew, John’s older brother, but I could only see the back of his head. 

John was only seven. He liked to hang around with his brother’s friends. I was nine, and considered John to be a baby, and rather annoying.  But now I imagined him, frightened, black glossy wings bearing down on him, sharp beak tearing at his eyes.... I shuddered.  

“What are we going to do?”  Sweat began to gather behind my knees.  I needed the toilet. 

“Come on!” James beckoned to us, urgently. I stayed close to Lisa as she half crawled, half crouched along the stony edge of the field. Andrew and James stayed close to the fence. Every few steps they stopped, and stared up at the bridge, whispering to each other. 

We followed.  I tried to hear what they were saying but the sound was lost in the constant growl of the motorway and the hiss of the barley. Nettles stung my legs and feet and I bit my lip to stop myself crying. 

“Down!” James and Andrew flung themselves into the dust. Lisa and I did the same. Panting with fear, the soil caked my wet face and crept into my mouth and nose with every sob. I waited, sure that any moment there would be the beat of wings, of claws in my neck. 

Nothing happened. The silence went on. The pressure on my bladder burned.  I lifted my forehead from the ground, and squinted through my fringe at the bridge. There might have been a dark figure there, in the shadow the hawthorns. It was hard to tell. 

There was a scuffling and panting and Andrew and James crouched beside us. We got to our knees, still keeping our heads low.

“We need to get John back,” said Andrew. “My Mum’ll go mad.” 

“What’s the plan?” asked Lisa. 

Then they all turned towards me. They suddenly seemed very big. They seemed to surround me.

“A swap,” said Andrew. “Cathy, you go up there, and take John’s place. You are nine, after all.” 

Lisa nodded.

“No!” I stammered. “No! I can’t!”

“You have to,” said James firmly. “We have to get John back. Go up to the bridge. The Crow Man will take you, and let John go. Then you can try and escape.”

“No!” Tears dripped muddy trails down my knees. “No!” I shouted, and scrambled to my feet. I ran back towards the path, my hands clamped over my ears.  I didn’t look back. I was sure the Crow Man was swooping down on me, casting a great black shadow over my head. 

“Cathy!” Lisa shouted after me, “Cathy!”

I ran all the way home, scuffing my toes as I tripped in my sandals. My feet were bleeding through the dirt, my legs covered in nettle stings, and, shame of shame, I had wet my shorts. 

“What on earth have you been doing?” asked my mother when I burst into the house. “You’re filthy!” 

I tried to stop crying as she changed my clothes and washed my face.  “I’ve told you about playing with the older children,” she said, stroking my back in a soothing way. “You should have come home earlier if you needed the toilet. Never mind.” 

She gave me some orange juice and I began to see it all. They had played a trick, to frighten me, to make me look stupid. I burned with humiliation.

I didn’t try to explain what had happened. It all seemed silly now. 

It was a few hours later, when I was in bed, when there was a knock at the door. I listened in the dark at the top of the stairs. The policeman said a seven year old boy was missing. He had disappeared, while playing in the field.