Pinoycchio

Gepetto watched the sun scorch the earth, bleaching out the crops in record time. The harvest had come late that year but he was hoping for a turn of tides. The unforgiving sun gave him no quarter and he’d be forced to starve another winter. This time it’d gone too far. He pushed back from the wooden fence, sagging into the ground and rotting at the lowest rung. Five years on this dusty old farm and he’d not made one return on his investment. He’d given up his love of wood carving to become a farmer and he nearly regretted the decision every day.

“Well Pinoy, it looks like your time here is nearly up,” he said to the scarecrow beside him. The scarecrow was well made and Gepetto’s craft shined through. The clothes were hand woven and double stitched to last the test of time. The hay had been heated and pressed, to fill Pinoy’s belly, arms, and legs so they’d appear as realistic as possible. More hay had been clamped and braided around the crown of the head which was fashioned from sheet metal. From there, Gepetto used a secondhand hole saw to create the eyes, nose and mouth. Pinoy was one of many lifelike renderings of Gepetto’s earlier carved creations that had burned to the ground six years earlier by thrill seeking looters.

Spirals of smoke and ascending amber embers had clotted the night sky.

“Get the money then the goods!” One of the men shouted and burst through the front doors of Gepetto’s shop, glass breaking as the door slammed against the wall. They’d taken everything he held dear—his beloved hand crafted clocks, sweetly singing music boxes, elaborate wreathes, ornate figurines for every occasion…and his favorite puppet Pinocchio. Each piece priceless and precious, was plundered. All the while, the sleek metal barrel of a .45 had been pressed to his nose. Gepetto didn’t fight, didn’t shout, didn’t protest, because it was pointless. He only followed them with his eyes as they pillaged his life’s work and then set fire to that achieved dream with six Molotov Cocktails.

Now, more of his life smoldered, laid to waste under a slower burn that hung overhead and out of reach. In honor of the loss, he’d named his farm Cchio Crops and every scarecrow shared a part of the dearly departed in their name. To his left were nine scarecrows, starting with Penni and ending with Paisley. To his right were nine more, starting with Pinoy and ending with Persa. But Pinoy was Gepetto’s favorite, just like Pinocchio had been.

“You keep your brothers and sisters company now, Pinoy,” Gepetto said to the scarecrow. The townsfolk met every third Wednesday of the week at the main hall to discuss trades and other business. He’d see if he couldn’t trade some of his salvaged wheat for extra funds for at least some winter meat down the road. Once Gepetto was out of sight, Pinoy went to work.

“I hope he gets the money he needs,” Pinoy said. “We need to hurry down and till the crops before he gets back.”

“They’re dead,” Palmer said as he watched Pinoy wiggle off his post.

“You’ve trampled them to pieces and defeated the purpose,” Penni added.

“Standing by does nothing!” Pinoy argued. “You know everything Gepetto makes is magical. Those creations might have saved the shop if they’d done something.”

“Pinoycchio!” Porta said using his full name and the other scarecrow stopped.

“Standing guard is what we do,” she remined Pinoy. “Being there for him is our job. Now get back up here before you get us all caught!” Pinoy stopped and faced his brothers and sisters who all agreed with Portacchio’s statement.

“You’ll see,” Pinoy finally said and turned back.

“No, you’ll see,” Porta countered.

By the time Gepetto reached the house, the sun had started to drop and he realized he’d not given himself enough time to get ready. He wiped the sweat and grime from his forehead with the back of his hand. The stubborn tufts of his salt and pepper cap of hair fell back over his smudged glasses. It was just him on the old farm and he so often lost track of time on his own. But he was alright with that. He had all the new family he needed—all eighteen of his scarecrows watching over his dying crops and keeping him company while he turned the time. All of them had a name and had a history. They were his family now.

At the sink, Gepetto splashed water over his dust covered face and changed his shirt which had grown heavy with sweat stains. He kept on the overalls, seeing he hadn’t a clean pair to replace them with. In front of the mirror, he combed back his damp hair and yanked open one of his dresser drawers. He sprayed cologne over him, the label long worn away with the passage of time. It smelled like lacquer and hardly masked the hours of unpleasant musk that still clung to his skin.

“Wish me well,” he said to his reflection.

As dusk shrank back and night took its place, the scarecrows stood guard over the desolate stretch of crops until the moon snaked out from behind a swatch of clouds. The family looked up at the full moon in awe.

“It’s the Blue Fairy Harvest Moon,” Parlov whispered. Gepetto’s family had proven brave, truthful, and unselfish in the face of loss. Her soft white light revived the crops for another season.

“See Pinoycchio? What did I say?” Porta asked. Around the moon, the stars were particularly bright that night.