Free Scarecrow by Robin Hathaway

wandered into his booth and stood looking at some tools spread out on a workbench.
    â€œThat’s where I make my bows and arrows.”
    â€œYou make your own?”
    He nodded. “Like the Lenapes.”
    â€œLenapes?”
    â€œThe Lenni Lenapes—the Indians who settled in these parts.”
    â€œNative Americans.”
    â€œPardon.”
    â€œNever mind.” Trying to convert Bayfielders to political correctness was a lost cause. “Show me how you do it.”
    He glanced at me, not sure he had heard right. Convinced I was in earnest, he picked up a stone from the workbench and handed it to me. It was about four by five inches, hard and black.
    â€œThat’s obsidian. When freshly flaked it can be four hundred times sharper than surgical steel.” He sat down on a wooden stool and pulled a thick leather pad across his knees. Placing the stone on the pad, he studied it as a sculptor might. Then he took a small mallet from the workbench and tapped the stone. A piece of the stone fell away. He tapped the stone at another spot. Another piece fell away. The stone began to take on a sharp, triangular shape.
    I watched, fascinated in spite of myself. “How did you do that?”

    â€œYou study the grain of the stone and locate its flaws before you tap it. Then the pieces will usually fall away where you want them to. Its called knapping.”
    â€œAs in kid?”
    â€œNo. K-n-a-p … and the people who do it are called knap-pers.”
    â€œAnd that’s the way the Indians made their arrowheads?”
    â€œIt’s one way.”
    â€œAnd you make your bows, too?”
    He handed me the one he had just used. A beautiful instrument. Smooth, flexible, honey-colored. I gave it back. He demonstrated how it would bend without breaking.
    â€œCan I try?” a tow-headed boy spoke up. He had been watching from a distance.
    â€œSure.” Tom gave it to him. The bow was about two feet taller than the boy. “Here.” He led him nearer to the target and set his hands in the right positions on the bow. “Now look straight at the bull’s-eye …”
    He had a nice way with the kid. Suddenly, I remembered Maggie. “Gotta go,” I said.
    I smelled the Baptist bake table before I saw it, and began to salivate. Maggie was scanning the crowd for me. “I thought you’d gone home,” she said.
    â€œSorry, I got involved with the archer.”
    â€œOh, Tom Canby. We call him the Bowman around here. Now what will you have, Jo?” She indicated the array of succulent baked goods spread out on the table. “Chocolate cake, cherry pie, lemon squares … ?”
    â€œLemon squares,” I said quickly. There was a bakery in Queens that had sold them. I used to pick them up after school when I was flush with a new allowance.
    Maggie turned to one of the Baptists behind the table. “A dozen lemon squares, please. Take one, Jo, before she wraps them up,” she urged.
    She didn’t have to urge me twice. It was sublime. Just the right
consistency. A perfect blend of sweet and tart, the pastry melted on my tongue.
    After two more stops, for a heaping dish of strawberry ice cream and a waffle the size of a large frying pan, I was ready to go home. Maggie agreed and we made our way across the field for the fourth time that day. Before I got into the car, I glanced in the backseat. It was empty.
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    â€œBut who would want to steal a scarecrow?” I moaned.
    â€œSome kid probably. A prank.”
    â€œSome prank. I’d like to get my hands on …”
    â€œNow, now,” Maggie soothed, pulling into the motel parking lot.
    â€œIf only you’d locked your car,” I blurted.
    Maggie looked shocked. “But we never lock …”
    â€œI know. I know. Because Bayfield is so safe.” I climbed out. “Well, it isn’t safe.” I slammed the door. “And I’m out twenty