by Lisa Fiedler
4
UNBEARABLE DISCOMBOBULATION
As Glinda walked through town with Ursie Blauf, her mind was filled with thoughts of Declaration Day.
Around the girls were the familiar redbrick buildings, with their red-painted porches and profusions of flowers in shades of vermilion and scarlet. The only hue bolder than the flora was the vibrant red coats of Aphidina’s army.
As always, the soldiers milled about in great numbers, lounging in the doorways of private homes, marching in platoons down quiet lanes, and lingering in the bustling town square. Glinda had never wondered at their presence before, for it was a fact known to all that the army was there only to ensure the comfort and safety of the Quadling populace. Today, though, she asked herself this: If Quadling were as safe as it was said to be, what need was there for soldiers?
Ursie had just announced that she’d be declaring herself a Governess at today’s ceremony. Glinda could picture it as plainly as if it had already happened. Ursie would call forth a scroll from the enormous, ancient urn set on a riser in the middle of the school’s Grand Drawing Room, and it would more likely than not say Governess upon it. Then one of the instructors would shake Ursie’s hand, wishing her a “steady future,” as opposed to the more hopeful blessing of “good luck.”
“My sister is a Governess. And my mother was a Governess,” Ursie was explaining. “Seems a good fit, since I don’t despise babies much. I’m positive ‘Governess’ is what my scroll will say.”
Glinda nodded, envying Ursie’s certainty.
“Will you choose Seamstress?” Ursie asked. “Like your mother?”
Glinda’s reply was a faltering smile.
Turning the corner, the girls stumbled upon two strapping soldiers politely escorting Master Abrahavel J. Squillicoat, the apothecary, out of his shop while three more set about boarding up his windows.
“Nothing to be concerned about,” the larger of his captors assured the chemist, as pleasantly as if he were merely ordering a cough elixir, as opposed to removing him bodily from his place of business.
The second officer smiled a charming smile. “This is Quadling and all is well,” he said. “Here you are as safe and as free as Aphidina allows you to be.”
Glinda stopped short. She had heard that phrase before.
A burst of light from the sky, a shadowy compass . . .
“Step aside, please, miss,” the first soldier advised.
Glinda leaped out of the way, but not before meeting Squillicoat’s gaze. Despite his tranquil demeanor, she was surprised to see the glint of panic in his eyes as the soldiers whisked him away, cheerfully promising him a pleasant walk to the outskirts of Quadling.
“I always liked Master Squillicoat,” said Ursie with a frown. “He blended a poultice that all but saved my life when I caught a case of the Insidious Splotches back in Fledgling year.”
Glinda and Ursie continued on, quietly thinking their own thoughts until they reached the town square.
“Ursie,” Glinda began cautiously, “have you ever really, truly believed the legend of Elucida the Moon Fairy?”
Ursie lowered her eyebrows and gave Glinda a sideways look. “Have you?”
“I’m not sure,” Glinda confessed. “But I think I might have dreamed about her.”
“A Moon Fairy sounds lovely,” said Ursie. “Almost as delightful as the legend of the elusive Sea Fairies. Such stories are far more interesting than the things we learn at Mentir’s, like ‘fireflies hate the taste of roses,’ and ‘icing on tea cakes should always be spread from left to right, and never right to left.’ ”
“Fireflies love roses,” Glinda corrected absently. “It’s poppies they dislike.”
Just then shouts rang out across the square. Glinda and Ursie turned to see a gang of children, hooting and clapping.
“Now what?” said Ursie.
The children seemed to have someone or something surrounded. A mournful howl rose up from the center of their circle, and Glinda dashed toward the uproar.
What she saw caused her heart to clench. There, curled on the ground, was an enormous, quivering bear, his black eyes shining with fear.
“Hit ’im again!” snorted the tallest boy in the group. “With a rock this time!”
There was a sickening thunk as the stone found its mark and again the bear groaned in agony.
“Dopey bear,” hissed a pointy-faced girl with wispy mud-colored hair. “Can’t even walk a straight line without toppling over himself.”
“Bumbling oaf!” shouted a chubby boy; he had freckles all over his doughy face and up and down his plump arms. Grabbing a stick from the ground, he commenced to poke it into the bear’s silky fur.
The bear whined and cried out, as much in shame and sadness as in pain. He attempted to disengage himself, but succeeded only in growing even more discombobulated.
Somebody spit on him, and the bear covered his face with his giant paws, only to be kicked hard in his backside by a gangly boy with bile-colored eyes and buck teeth.
“Stop it!” came Glinda’s shrill command. “STOP IT this instant!”
The shout was so fierce that the baiting ceased immediately; sticks and stones fell to the ground as the tormentors turned in search of their accuser.
Glinda felt their bitter eyes upon her.
“What are you doing?” Ursie whispered. “Are you trying to get us clobbered? Those are Field Waifs!”
Glinda had never been this close to a Field Waif before. They were the children of Quadling Country whom Aphidina had deemed more inclined to physical labor than academic pursuit. Rather than being sent off to Mentir’s or Mendacium’s to struggle through six years of cognitive enlightenment, they were instead graciously allowed to serve the Witch in a capacity more suited to their constitutions—as farmhands. By her kind decree, these Field Waifs toiled in the Perilous Pasture, sowing and hoeing and harvesting crops from sunup to sundown, and all without ever being expected—or permitted—to open a book. They had a reputation for being a surly lot, with a deep dislike for any child who was not a field laborer.
As if to prove it, the bile-eyed boy was pushing up his sleeves and stalking toward Glinda. She blanched but forced herself to look the delinquent in the face.
“You were hurting him!” she said. “He can’t help it if he’s clumsy.”
“Still ain’t no business of yours,” said the pointy-faced girl.
Sizing up the young thugs, Glinda quickly determined that she was both outnumbered and out-nastied. Deciding that cunning was her only option, she gave the pointy girl a knowing look.
“Perhaps it isn’t,” she said. “But you should know that this bear is not just any bear.”
“What bear is he, then?” the chubby boy asked, dribbling a string of saliva.
“He is Major Ursa,” Glinda said, the fictitious distinction rolling off her tongue so easily it made her smile. “A high-ranking member of Aphidina’s Royal Animalian Guard.” Aphidina did not have an Animalian Guard, but Glinda was reasonably sure the Waifs did not know this. “Oh, and did I mention, he is the Witch’s particular favorite?” Putting on a reverential voice, she genuflected before the bear and said, “Good morning, Major.”
By now the bear had drawn himself up to all fours and was licking his wounds. His teeth were like razors. And his claws! One swipe could have removed from that chubby boy the majority of his fat freckly flesh. But for all the animal’s size and might, Glinda understood that he was not a swiping sort of bear.
“How nice that the Witch has sent you into town today,” she went on, her smile urging the bear to play along. “Is your mission to search out and arrest any poor-mannered miscreants who might be causing trouble?”
The bear stopped licking, made a wuffling sound, as though to say, Sure, why not? and nodded his enormous head.
Whether the girl and the chubby boy understood that they were the poor-mannered miscreants to which Glinda was alluding was hard to say, but they did take a nervous
step away from the “major.” Bile-eyes wasn’t quite so easily convinced.
“If he’s a major, then why’s he lettin’ us bash him without bashin’ us back?”
Glinda gave the boy a cool look. “Members of the Animalian Guard do not ‘bash’ children.” She shook her head. “I wonder what Aphidina would think if she knew what you’ve done to her beloved friend.”
“She’s gonna tell the Witch on us!” shrieked the sharp-faced girl. “Run!” She bolted, shouting for her friends to do the same. They ran after her.
The clamor of the Field Waifs fleeing caught the attention of a nearby soldier. He waved to the uniformed driver of a wagon across the square; the driver cracked his whip and the horses took off after the Waifs. Then the soldier approached Glinda and Ursie.
As he drew nearer, Glinda saw that he was in the process of some bizarre transformation. Where his nose should have been was a gnarled tree knot, and the fingers with which he gripped his musket were thick vines. Hanging down from under his hat was not hair but a straggle of green ivy.
“What were those little blighters doing away from the pasture?” the soldier demanded of Glinda.
Glinda could only stare. She had never seen anyone in such a state before.
“They were just up to their usual shenanigans,” Ursie assured him, averting her eyes. “No harm done.”
When the soldier marched away, Glinda fell to her knees beside the bear. She stroked his head and used the cuff of her red school dress to wipe the blob of Field Waif spittle from his fur. Then she untied her braids and used the two ribbons to bind his wounds.
“I’m sorry they hurt you,” she murmured in his ear.
The animal rolled his shoulders in a bearish shrug, causing him to totter. “It’s truboo,” he said, his voice like honey. “I um clum-ubsy. I wumble-wobble when I walk and clumsy-umsy when I talk.”
Glinda gave him a scratch behind his ears; then she and Ursie hurried on toward school. To her surprise, the bear followed, tumbling along behind.
Squillicoat’s sudden eviction, Field Waifs, the changeling soldier . . . Glinda had witnessed these sorts of goings-on her whole life, but today was the first time she’d ever been troubled by them. She felt as if she was now seeing things as they really were, rather than how she had been taught to see them.
An image of four smoky figures flashed in her mind.
“Ursie,” she said before she could stop herself, “I’m not so sure that Queen Aphidina is really what she seems to be.”
Ursie’s face brightened with interest, and, if Glinda weren’t mistaken, relief. “I’m so glad to hear you say that, because—”
Fwummpppff!
Behind them, the bear tripped and rolled over himself like a big furry acrobat. Glinda quickly went to help him right himself.
“Thumk clu,” said the bear, nuzzling her cheek.
Returning to Ursie, Glinda prompted, “Because why?”
But they had reached the academy campus, and Ursie shrugged. “Never mind,” she mumbled.
Glinda turned to the bear. “You’ll have to stay out here,” she told him. “Will you be all right?”
The bear snuffled happily and replied, “Yumsy,” which Glinda took to mean yes. Then he waddled over to a butterfruit tree and curled up at its roots.
Glinda and Ursie approached the knotty hazel hedge, which marked the campus boundary. Beyond it the academy stood proudly, the red-shingled rooftops of its turrets piercing the sky, its rusted weathervane pointing ever southward in homage to Aphidina. There was a rustle and a swoosh as the snarled hedge opened itself to allow them entrance.
Sweeping through the gap in the hazel branches, Ursie gave a wistful sigh. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we were allowed to use Magic?”
Glinda’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise.
“Think about it, Glin. We’re surrounded by Magic, inside and out. Magic is our greatest truth, but only those whom Aphidina allows can use it. It’s not fair, and what’s worse, it makes everything feel like a lie.”
As they made their way up the gravel footpath toward the school’s front steps, Ursie glanced around cautiously. Then she took both of Glinda’s hands in hers. “I have a secret,” she breathed, her eyes sparkling. “A secret about Miss Gage.”
Miss Gage, who had come to the academy at the start of this year to teach seminars on How to Hear the Stars Twinkle and Lullabies as Literature, was Glinda’s absolute favorite teacher. She was nothing like the rest of the faculty at Madam Mentir’s; occasionally Glinda had wondered if Miss Gage had been hired by mistake.
“A secret? Tell me!”
“It was something I discovered months ago,” Ursie confided, “in a homework assignment for Lullabies. We were given an old cradlesong to memorize, remember?”
Glinda nodded.
“Well, as I was chalking the lullaby onto my slate, I made a mistake. So I erased what I had written.”
“And . . . ?”
“And the dust from the chalk rose up in a little cloud, and I could see the very words I’d just rubbed out, floating in the air. Then the letters rearranged themselves and spelled out a message.”
Glinda’s eyes went round. Nothing like that had ever occurred in any of her homework assignments. “What did the message say?”
Again, Ursie looked around before leaning in close to whisper what the chalk had told her:
“Lullabies are sweet enough, but you are made of stronger stuff,
For Oz we’ll soon begin the fight, when those who yearn for truth unite.”
Glinda’s skin tingled. “What does it mean?”
“It means,” said Ursie, skipping up the broad steps to the academy’s grand entrance, “that there might just be something to look forward to.”
With that, she turned and pushed open the front door.
Glinda hurried after her, wondering why Miss Gage would risk sending Magical communiqués under the guise of lullaby homework. That was just asking for trouble.
With a deep breath, Glinda followed Ursie through the imposing doorway and into the school’s stately entry hall. There, serenely descending the sweeping staircase in the foyer, was Miss Gage.
And she was looking right at Glinda.
5
MADAM MENTIR’S ACADEMY FOR GIRLS
Miss Gage held Glinda’s gaze for a long moment. Then, from her pocket, she removed a small mirror in a filigree frame and examined her reflection.
The staff scurried about the entry hall in preparation for the day’s event, hanging decorations and placing bowls of red zinnias on gleaming side tables. A custodian ambled past, carrying the ceremonial urn brimming with scrolls.
Glinda saw her classmates gathered in one corner, fussing with their hair ribbons and shoe buckles. As a class they were known as the Conclusives, and they’d been together here at Mentir’s since their first day as Fledglings, six years before. All had gone to great lengths to look their best for the festivities; they had starched their pinafores and polished their boots, and with the notable exception of Glinda, every girl’s hair was neatly braided or pinned up. Blingle Plunkett’s golden tresses had been swept into a twist with cascading tendrils framing her delicately featured face.
When Blingle spotted Glinda and Ursie, she waved them over. It was not so much an invitation as it was a direct order.
Glinda had always thought Blingle would make a fine replacement headmistress should Madam Mentir ever retire, or inexplicably disintegrate into a pile of red powder and disappear in the wind, which was exactly what had happened to Headmaster Mendacium earlier that semester!
“Glinda Gavaria!” Blingle gasped. “What happened to you? Your hair is an absolute catastrophe!”
“Nothing happened to me,” said Glinda, wishing she could twist Blingle into a tendril. “I gave my hair ribbons to a clumsy bear.”
Blingle scowled. “That doesn’t even make sense, Glin-duh.”
“It makes perfect sense,” said Ursie. “And what business is it of y
ours how Glinda wears her hair anyway? Honestly, Blingle, you always act as if you’re so much older than we are, and so much more important.”
“I am important,” said Blingle. “Just ask Minx.” Her eyes narrowed as she gave her best friend a poke. “What do you think, Minxie? Am I important?”
“Oh, yes, Blingle,” yelped Minx. “You are colossally important!”
It came as no surprise to Glinda that Minx agreed with Blingle, since the one time Minx had disagreed with her, Blingle had “accidentally” cut off six inches of Minx’s beautiful chestnut-colored hair. It had been chalked up to a “freak sewing class mishap,” but Glinda suspected that the “accident” had been both intentional and premeditated.
“Important and wise,” chirped D’Lorp Twipple, who had dimples and a tendency to hiccup. “Not to mention sophisticated and kind.”
“Just like Aphidina,” added Trebly Nox, who, like the others, would never forgo an opportunity to flatter Blingle . . . whether Blingle deserved it or not.
A derisive snort came from the direction of the stairs, and Glinda turned to see Miss Gage slipping the filigree mirror back into her pocket.
Now Madam Mentir’s harsh voice rumbled through the entry hall like wagon wheels over cobblestones. “Glinda Gavaria! Approach!”
Obediently, Glinda dashed across the foyer and presented herself to the headmistress, executing a flawless curtsy. “Good morning, Madam,” she said. “Happy Declaration Day.”
“How can I be happy,” the headmistress snarled, “when one of my Declarants has forgotten to braid her hair?”
Across the foyer D’Lorp let out a nervous hiccup.
Glinda kept her gaze on the floor. “I apologize, Headmistress. It was unavoidable.”
“Well, I shan’t have it!” Mentir boomed. “No graduate of this academy will be allowed to declare with her hair unbound. It sends the wrong message.”
Glinda had no idea what sort of message the absence of braids could possibly send, but she refrained from saying so. A muffled giggle from across the foyer told her the Declarants were witnessing her humiliation with great interest and, in Blingle’s case, deep delight.