The Pumpkin Thieves

Cousin Kate and I loved the bridge.  It was the entrance to our castle; it was our pirate ship, our dragon’s cave filled with hidden treasure.  From there, the cornfield lay between us and the main house, protecting our adventures from the outside world.  As summer chilled to autumn the once green stalks faded to gold.  The wind made the dried husks shake, and the rough sound of dead leaves dancing added a soundtrack to the farm only ever present during this one time of year.  It was the perfect setting, a stage already built and ready for its players.  In the crisp fall air, the worlds we dreamed of came alive and for a few short hours every day, we were the heroes in stories of our own creation.  Until one night, something changed.

As was usual in those days, Cousin Kate came to stay at the farm through the harvest season.  Too young to really help out the work hands, and too old for our mothers to keep us under constant watch, we spent our days breaking as many rules as we could get away with.  We played hide and seek in the corn fields, stole tomatoes from my mother’s garden, and dug up worms down by the old bridge out of sight of the main house.

It was during harvest season one year, on a night much like all the others, when the northern wind swirled through the tall grasses and thistle, turning the usually harsh land into a sea of movement.  Kate and I trekked through the corn, leaving a trail of sound discordant with the rhythm of the wind, while some kind of critter-bug made harsh rattling caws, filling the space with noise.  Night fell gently, the shade of the trees growing darker even as the world came alive around us.  In the evenings, the colors of the farm, from soft greens to harsh yellows, all fade to tinted shades of grey and blue.  That night, however, the natural music of the land replaced what little sense of color or time was left in the fading light.  Crickets joined the chorus, serenading the hammock spiders and fireflies. 

We still had time before dinner, though I was already hungry by then.  The bridge beckoned even as my father called out to remind us to be in before full dark.  We pretended we couldn’t hear him.  The night was perfect for hunting falling stars, so we donned our makeshift pirate hats and grabbed walking sticks we brandished as swords.  Glittering stardust treasure would be ours – after a hefty bout of fencing of course.  And I had a secret I was ready to tell Kate about.

The bridge was, and has always been, off limits.  Adults liked to talk of its molded wood and rusted nails, and they always said how dangerous the rickety boards were for the unsupervised.  Every time the two of us were found there, they would yell and scold and know that there was nothing they could do about our behavior, just as there was nothing their parents could do about theirs, or their parents’ parents.  Nobody save the old man really knew why the bridge was so dangerous or why the elders had given up all thought of cultivating the land beyond it.  There were always the whispers, the rumors spread by each generation of children of a boy who had gone missing at the bridge, perhaps having wandered away or – our most gruesome favorite – pulled under water by the spring currents.

The water that night made soft chugging and gurgling noises as it swirled around under the bridge.  The sun glowed orange just above the horizon, blending smoothly with the peach colored sky, and the stars brightened.  Our pirate ship was waiting.

“En guard, you thieving buccaneer!”  ‘Buccaneer’ was my cousin’s new favorite word.  “You’ll never find my treasure.” 

Stick swords clattered as we chased each other around the bridge, yelling friendly insults as we fought over lost gold medallions and fallen stars.

A sharp caw interrupted us, and the old man’s raven landed on the bridge.  The large black bird could normally be found shadowing the old man around the farm and the two seemed to have a strange understanding of each other. 

“I thought he never left Old Man Mani?” Cousin Kate flopped down in the grass.  I joined her, our swordplay forgotten.

“He doesn’t, normally.  I don’t know, but he’s been coming around here more often.”

The still waxing moon had risen over the edge of the horizon as the last glowing spark of the sun vanished over the other side.  The sky still glowed faintly and I knew we’d better get back before my parents came looking for us.  A faint, almost inaudible music broke the silence first.  Kate and I looked at each other and I held my finger up to my lips.

It was the tinkling of bells, then it was a wooden flute, or possibly the soft strain of a violin.  The music was so quiet it was almost unreal and we held our breath in anticipation.  My father called out across the dusk.  The music dissipated quickly and we could breathe again.  Kate sat up.

“So is that the big secret you wanted to tell me about?”

For a moment I couldn’t answer, unsure how to articulate what I knew.  My thoughts were interrupted by the indistinct calling of now both my mother and father.  I stood up and dusted off my trousers.

“Not entirely.  I’ll tell you later tonight. But you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

We used the last of the days light to make our way back through the corn field, the old man’s raven sweeping through the darkness behind us.  As usual we curved around to the side of the house, and came out through the sunflowers instead of the corn field.  It’s hard to tell if our parents were fooled or not, but nothing was said and dinner was lively and loud, as was usual for our household.

Later we sat on the floor of my room, cushions and sheets set up into our own personal cave, and one flashlight between us to light up the semi-dark.  The light from the hallways shone through the open door, adding an extra barrier against the night.  For a while we continued our game of Uno from the night before.  My mom checked on us, and as soon as she went back to the living room, we set our cards down.

“I think there’s something living in the pumpkin field.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure, but whatever it is, it came from across the bridge.”

“How do you know?”

“Remember those lights I told you about?  Well, they’re not from Old Man Mani. Last time I saw them he was having drinks with my parents in the living room, and no one else lives out there.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“We need to get out there tomorrow night after dark and catch it.”

We grinned at each other.  Here was true adventure, far above the games we had played before.  We spent the rest of our evening guessing what could have come from across the bridge, and planning what we would do when we caught it.  And the next evening we snuck out to the bridge to see what we could find.



The night was chillier than the last, and the crow swooped along behind us, its wings barely making a whisper on the breeze.  We stole through the corn field, our boots landing each step with a dry thud, corn leaves scratching at our jackets like dry fingers.  The scarecrow witnessed our trek to the bridge with its usual somber presence.

The bridge was just out of sight through the corn when we heard the music from the night before.  Kate and I stopped for a moment, enchanted.  It wasn’t until we began to see dancing orbs of light that we quickened to a run.  At the edge of the field we froze, and hunkered down under the corn.  The crow fluttered silently to the ground next to us.  The music was clear and bright on the breeze, and a myriad of tiny stars hovered over the procession crossing the bridge.

Small figures of different shapes and kinds – some larger than the others, some on two legs, some on more – all dressed in brightly garish colors, marched across the bridge with dazzling enthusiasm.  And in the midst of the outlandish parade was the largest, most perfectly shaped pumpkin from my family’s pumpkin patch.

“Fairies,” Kate said, her voice softer than the rustling grass.  I was silent in awe.  I could only stare at the fantastical scene before us.  A fine mist twisted up from the water and massed around the fairies as they reached the far side of the bridge.  The air shifted and I blinked away the unexpected tears that stung my eyes.  When I looked back up the fairies, and my father’s pumpkin, were gone.  Only a spider web of mist remained.

“Kate.”  We looked at each other, stunned.  And out of the shock a single thought occurred to me.  “Kate, they took dad’s pumpkin.  The one he was going to enter into the Fair this year!”

“What are we going to tell your parents?”  I shook my head, unable to think of anything.  This whole thing was getting more and more bizarre by the second.  I flicked on the flashlight and pointed it at where the fairies had vanished.

“I don’t know.  If we tell them it was fairies they’ll think it was us.”

Kate looked back in the direction of the house and then across the bridge.  “Not if they never find out.” 

There was a pause, a moment when it seemed the whole world sucked in a startled breath, and then the old man’s crow began to screech.  I grabbed Kate’s hand and we scrambled towards the bridge.  The crow flew in front of our faces, cawing harshly as if to herd us back into the corn field.  I waved it away with the flashlight, the circle of light bobbing around much like the glowing orbs that had followed the earlier procession.

Our first steps on the bridge were hollow, the old wood echoed strangely in our ears and the sound of water gurgling beneath us faded to barely a murmur.  The crow’s warning cries were muted and damp chill permeated our thick jackets faster than any rain we had ever experienced.

The sound of wings overhead made both Kate and I duck down.  We looked to the sky, and I was momentarily distracted when I realized that the stars had vanished behind a thick fog.  A great owl, larger than even the horned owl we had once seen at the Fair, flung out of the darkness on a wind we could not feel.  On the other end of the bridge it turned back to us, wings outspread like arms, eyes sharp but kind with some sort of amusement.  Warmth followed on the breeze of its wings.  As when the fairy troop had vanished, the air around us shifted ever so slightly.  And in a single, beautiful ray of silver light, the owl shimmered and transformed.

She was tall, taller than even my parents, yet when she looked at us it was as if she was staring directly into our eyes.  Kate’s hand jerked in mine and I couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped me.  The owl-lady stood still and regal in robes that seemed at first made of starlight.  When she took a step forward, the fabric fluttered around her in a cloud of gossamer strands and glittering feathers. 

“Who are you?” I asked, unable to come up with words more appropriate for the occasion.  Kate gave me a kick and squeezed my hand hard.