The Charm Of Simplicity: Garry Kilworth And "Scarecrows"

Because they compress their narratives, many short stories can be far more complex, overtly and by implication, than their length might suggest. This complexity adds to their power, but there can also be power in simplicity. Not every story needs layers of meaning and nuance, because every now and then, a story can suceed by charm alone.

One of my favourite recent examples would be "Scarecrows," by Garry Kilworth, from his collection, DARK HILLS, HOLLOW CLOCKS. Within five pages, Kilworth sets out everything he needs for a light-hearted, almost fabular story.

Right from the start, "Scarecrows" grounds its concept, plot, and resolution in the story's location:

"This village is called Feerness. It sits on an alluvial island which can be reached at low tide from the mainland by a track known locally as 'the hard'. The hard is visible for just a short period each day, the rest of the time it is submerged. A horseman crossing the hard needs to judge when to start his journey very accurately, while the waters are still on the ebb, to reach the other side before the tide turns and rushes back in to recover its territory."

In the most matter-of-fact way, the story then implies that anything could happen here:

"In such places of course, there are still nooks of magic, which have not been cleared away by the march of reason and logic of later centuries. They lie there in hollows, like pockets of green marsh gas, waiting to be used up."

For all of its remote severity, this village has one irresistible pull for the tourists:

"'Aren't the houses charming?' remarked the foreigners. 'Look at the beautiful gabled windows and the thatched rooftops of the cottages. Have you seen the gardens? Full of hollyhocks and roses, and trellises covered in wisteria. And the bullseye windows and leaded lights...'"

Accustomed to their isolation and their private ways, the villagers decide to ward off attention by making their houses ugly:

"The villagers had a meeting one night, and being fisher and farming folk, decided on a course of action congruent with their way of life. They were simple people who believed in simple solutions. They rebuilt their village, making it ugly and frightening, using stone dredged from the slick wastes of the estuary, and sea-rotted timbers covered in limpets and barnacles. There were bulges, and mean little windows as tight as ploughshare slits in turnips, and sills dripping with slime. There were grotesques jutting from the eaves, and dark bands of pocked wood, and misshapen bricks of river mud sealed with organic sludge. The gardens grew only stunted alders, always leafless, that twisted in arthritic poses. There were stagnant pools and lifeless streams, and mounds reminiscent of unkempt graves.

"These new houses threw daunting shadows that in themselves were forbidding areas, cold as churchyard earth."

The trick works, but with an unforeseen cost: the scarecrows of the village come to life, and claim these ugly houses for themselves.

"'What on earth do you want?' asked the astonished John Barnes. It was not the idea that his scarecrow stood before him that was shocking, so much as the fact that the fellow had deserted his post and left the fields unattended.

"'This house,' said the scarecrow, 'was obviously built for the likes of me, not people like you. You must have stolen it from my ancestors. I'm reclaiming my rights.'

"With that, strong gloved fingers of straw gripped John Barnes by the shoulder and wrenched him out into the rain. The scarecrow stepped inside the cottage and slammed the door. There were the sounds of bolts being slammed into place and after a few moments the lamp was put out and the fire doused."

Before the night is over, everyone in the village has been tossed out and locked out, but having fooled the tourists, the villagers now find a way to trick the scarecrows. The plan, of course, goes right back to details of location that began the story. But -- there is always a But.

And there is always room for different priorities in short fiction. Complex or straightforward, haunting or just plain fun, a short story lives or dies according to its impact on the page and its endurance in memory. Garry Kilworth shows that even the simplest of stories, on its own terms, can live and succeed.