Harlequin

She had the dream again.

         The floor seems to melt away in it, letting her fall through the blurry, soft sort of atmosphere the mind tricks you into in its subconscious. It's night in her dream, or maybe it's just dark. She can't see any stars or a moon anywhere to clarify the time of day. Of course it probably doesn't really matter too much anyway, she thought in hindsight.
         In the dream, there's always a man on a cross in a field, like he's a scarecrow or a sacrilegious representation of Jesus. His face is obscured in smoke. It's almost like the smoke is drawn to him, it seems, until she realizes the man is on fire. He's screaming like Hell had found him, thrashing about on his splintered cross. All she can distinguish, as the flames blacken his clothes and peel at his skin, is his pained, pitiful expression.

         That's when she wakes up.

         Emily awoke suddenly, but without a jolt. Her eyes had simply snapped open, out of the fire and the screaming, finding herself in reality once again, in her bed with all the covers kicked to the floor.
         Light peered in timidly through the diamond-shaped panes in the attic window, pale and mellow like butter or the color of daffodils. At least the day was Sunday, and she could spend the day by herself after doing her chores, spending the time doing exactly what she pleased. Anything at all.
         
         The afternoon had proved to be comfortably warm and bright, an ideal, surprisingly mild day in July. The rain from the night before must have cooled the air significantly.
         The sun played an improvised game of hide-and-seek behind the filmy, cotton clouds, and a breeze managed to wind itself through the loose strands of Emily's hair that had escaped from her ponytail. The breeze felt good on her face as she wandered lazily down the country road, stopping frequently to fish a pebble out of her sandal.
         On either side of the road were cornfields that belonged to the neighbors. Emily's family, however, were growing soybeans that year, due to crop rotation, a significantly less interesting vegetable. From the looks of it, the corn looked promising, strong and green and tall.
         "Hey, anyone there? Hello? Dammit, would someone help me?" Emily glanced at the cornfield on the right, cocking her ear towards it. She pulled her drawn little mouth into a frown of puzzlement.
         "Hello?" she called tentatively, stepping off the road and into the cornfield, gently pushing stalks out of her way.
         "Ok, is anybody even there?" the voice called again, bitterly. It wasn't a voice Emily recognized. It didn't sound like Mr. Gregory, the farmer who owned the field, or either of his teenage boys.
         Emily pushed through the cornfield, weaving about the rows towards the voice, walking slowly and cautiously.
         "Help. Help," the voice said again in a sardonically bland tone of voice. Emily cleared her throat.
         "Where are you?" she hollered, standing on her tiptoes to try and see over the tops of the stalks.
         "What? Hello! I'm over here!" the voice called excitedly. It sounded like a young man's voice. "Follow my voice!"
         She broke through into a clearing and had a sudden odd feeling that she should turn and walk away.
         It was too weird.
         A man, or something of a striking resemblance, was hung in place of scarecrow. His eyes were dark and glittering, like little black beetles, and his dark hair was sticking out from underneath his tattered, odd hat stiffly, like straw. His clothes were the strangest clothes Emily had ever seen. They seemed like something a jester ought to wear, however dingy and ratty: red and yellow with a pattern of black diamonds all over the entirety of his shirt and pants. The only article of clothing that seemed normal was a tattered black overcoat he wore over his loud ensemble.
         The scarecrow man glared at her. "Well," he said in a haughty, insinuating tone, "you going to help me down or what?"
         "What? Oh, yeah. Sure," Emily replied meekly, looking away from his long, angular face and reached up to undo the knots that held him in place.
         "Ow," the man said matter-of-factly as Emily's hand slipped and slammed into his wrist.
         "Sorry," she muttered, taking a quick glance at the scarecrow man's face before continuing to fumble with the rope. She would have wondered if this had been some sort of sick prank or something if it hadn't have been so surreal.
         He was the most peculiar sort of man she'd ever seen. His eyebrows looked scraggly and painted on, very badly, and his nose was almost a perfect, geometrically correct, triangle.
         "Am I dreaming?" Emily blurted aloud, her voice sounding a lot younger and faraway than usual.
         "How the hell would I know? I'm not in your head, am I?" he snapped, struggling underneath the ropes.
         "Are you?" Emily asked coyly, glancing up at him out of the corner of her eye. He scoffed, hacked, and spat just over Emily's shoulder.
         "I don't know. Maybe. Most people can't see me or hear me, so maybe we're both dreaming. Don't forget that knot to your left." Emily nodded, pulling at the knot with her short fingers. The knot came away and the man slid to the ground with a jingle. It was then that Emily noticed the bells on his shoes.
         The scarecrow man pulled his arms behind his back, stretching. "So," he asked mildly, rolling his head around on his shoulders, "what's your name?"
         She kicked a dirt clod with her foot. It crumbled into pieces that got wedged between her filthy toes. "Emily." The scarecrow scoffed, bending down to touch his toes.
         "What?" she retorted impatiently, kicking another dirt clod.
         "Pretty common name," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Emily snorted and blew a strand of blonde hair out of her face.
         "Fine then. What's yours?" she asked with a sour expression. She had just helped him, and here he was, insulting her.
         "Who me?" he asked in mock surprise. Just as Emily opened her mouth to spurt a catty retort, the scarecrow whipped off his scruffy hat and tipped into a low, theatrical bow. "Why, I'm Harlequin."
         Emily frowned deeper. "Harlequin?" she asked, unimpressed. The scarecrow flipped his hat onto one of his long fingers and began twirling it idly.
         "Yeah. Harlequin. You deaf, or what?" he snapped, switching his hat to the other hand. His Adam's apple bobbed as he watched it.
         "No," she replied, crossing her spindly arms across her chest. "It's just weird. A scarecrow named Harlequin." Harlequin frowned blandly, his eyes going peculiarly blank.
         Popping his hat back on his head he said haughtily, "Well, I see how it is," before stomping off into the field. Emily exhaled heavily and bent to pluck a dirt clod from between her toes before pursuing Harlequin. Emily frowned. He was nowhere in sight.
         "Harlequin?" she called tentatively, edging through the rows of corn. How could he have disappeared in just a couple of seconds?
         She came across him about twelve rows over, lying on his belly in the dirt, his feet behind his head and his hat perched on top of them. "How'd you get over here so fast?" Emily asked incredulously. Harlequin nibbled thoughtfully on the edge of a corn husk, but remained silent. "What are you doing?" Emily asked. Harlequin shrugged, looking off down the row at nothing.
         "Thinking," he finally mumbled around the corn husk.
         "About what?" Emily asked, plunking down onto the dry dirt beside him. Harlequin frowned and tossed the corn husk away.
         "Well, that's hardly any of your business, now, is it?" he replied curtly. Flipping over onto his back awkwardly, he placed one diamond-patterned sleeve in front of his eyes to shield them from the relentless afternoon sun.
         Time clicked past at an abnormally slow, uncomfortable pace between the two of them. Emily picked up a piece of corn husk and shredded it methodically with her fingernails. "You know," she said quietly, "I think I've dreamt about you a few times."
         "How flattering."
         "No, not really." Harlequin peeked at her from behind his sleeve. Her age was questionable. She was nothing but skinny and bony with long, awkward legs that looked even more awkward crossed. Her face was heart-shaped and she had bright, intelligent blue eyes that stood out even more against her tan skin. "You see," she continued, "in my dreams, you're always dying. You're on fire, and you're screaming a lot." Harlequin sat up with a grunt and brushed the dirt and husks from his hair.
         "Well, it's not like that's never happened before," he muttered bitterly, thumping his hat back onto his head and pushing it down over his scraggly eyebrows.
         "What do you mean?" Emily asked. Harlequin pushed himself to his feet, dusting the dirt off his tattered trousers. Emily leapt up and stumbled along behind him as he walked silently further  into the cornfield.
         "Wait," Emily said, afraid that he might vanish again. "You know, you never said thank you or anything!" Harlequin turned around. Taking off his hat, he bowed dramatically.
         "Thank you," he said in a parody of eloquence. "Now," he said, replacing his hat back onto his head, "are you coming or not?" He turned suddenly and side-stepped through the corn and out of sight. Emily ran to keep up.
         She followed him quickly out of the cornfield to another dusty road and then across that road to a shady grove. "A cemetery?" Emily spoke aloud, spotting the crumbling, fungus-ridden tombstones hidden in the tall, unkempt grass.
         "What else does it look like?" he snapped impatiently, journeying forward into the tangled mess, stepping gingerly over tombstones that had broken and toppled over, the bells on his shoes jingling slightly. He stopped somewhere in the middle, hands on his hips as he glanced around slowly. "I'm buried here somewhere. Not exactly sure where, but it's somewhere around here." He sighed tiredly. He was a strangely painful sight, Emily thought to herself as she studied him silently. Turning around, he saw Emily staring and smiled weakly, the first real smile he'd given her. He sat down next to a leafy but stunted tree. Emily hunkered down next to him and folded her long legs underneath her. She looked at him softly for a long time.
         "Does it hurt to die?" she asked quietly, concentrating on a piece of grass she twiddled between her fingers.
         "Not really," he replied, furrowing his brow and looking out over the cemetery. "Sometimes it hurts just before you die, of course, but the dying itself doesn't hurt. At worst, it's just an annoying tingling sensation until it's over, kind of like when your leg falls asleep." He looked down at his wide, pale hands. Silence overtook the conversation as Emily watched the sun sink to a lower spot in the sky.
         "I used to think about dying a lot," Emily said suddenly, surprising herself. "Sometimes I still do. Like when Daddy comes home late and...and touches me when Mama's asleep." She looked down at the grass in her hand, her face flushing with embarrassment.
         "I'm sorry."
         The words came out like water out of a faucet. "Sometimes he makes me do things. Not as much anymore, but still sometimes when he's drunk. And when it's all over, I feel so horrible and disgusting, and I take shower after shower, but the feeling just doesn't go away. And then I just want to die." She could feel the tears welling up hot in her eyes, stinging at the edges.
         "I'm sorry."
         "And the stupid thing is that I've never told anyone this. Nobody at all." The tears were starting to fall in hot, sticky rivulets down her face.
         "I'm so sorry."
         "But I feel so much better telling someone, anyone." Her voice cracked. "Even someone who might just be in my head." Emily cried for what felt like hours with Harlequin sitting patiently and wordlessly beside her beneath the tree.
         Suddenly, Emily looked up, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I should go home. It's probably almost time for supper." She stood, sniffed, and turned to look down at Harlequin, sitting with his arms hugging his knees. "I probably won't see you again, will I?" Harlequin smiled softly and shrugged.
         "Maybe. You never know." Emily smiled in return and nodded, somewhat sadly.
         "Thanks," she said turning to leave.
         "No problem."