Once there was a farmhand named Isembard who rose before the sun and slept after it, and in between belonged to the fields. The farm lay in a valley where the soil was dark as bread crust and the wind spoke low. Folks said the land was old and remembered things, but Isembard did not listen. He had a back strong as an ox and a mind worn smooth by labor.

Each spring the farmer set a single rule. No one was to work the west field after dusk. The grass there grew too thick, the stones too warm, the scarecrow too watchful. When asked why, the farmer would spit and say, “The field takes its tithe.” Then he would count his fingers as if checking they were all still his.

One evening the sky bruised purple and rain threatened. The west field stood half sown. Isembard weighed the rule against the coming storm and chose the seed. He told himself that rules were for those with leisure to fear them.

As the sun slipped away, the field changed its posture. Furrows curved where they had been straight. The soil breathed, slow and damp. Isembard worked faster. His sack grew lighter, yet the ground seemed no fuller. Each seed made a sound when it fell, a small click like a knuckle cracking.

When the last seed left his hand, the wind stopped. The scarecrow leaned closer. It had been stuffed with straw and an old coat, but now it smelled of iron and loam. Its button eyes caught the little light left and held it.

“You have paid,” said the field, though no mouth opened. “Now be counted.”

Roots broke the surface, pale and writhing, winding around Isembard’s boots. He tried to run, but the ground rose to meet his feet, softening, gripping. He remembered then the farmer’s hands, how they shook when counting change, how the west field never yielded quite as much as it should.

By morning the rain came gentle and steady. The farmer walked the edge of the west field and nodded. A new scarecrow stood where the old one had leaned, straighter now, dressed in a familiar coat. Its straw was packed tight, its boots sunk deep and useful.

That year the harvest was rich. The farmer ate well and slept poorly. Children were told a fairytale about listening to rules and honoring dusk. And in the west field, when the wind was right, the scarecrow creaked as if trying to speak, counting softly to itself, over and over, to make sure it was still there.