This was not like any hallucinogenic state he had ever read about.
It must be a lucid dream, he thought, one composed of all his fears and anxieties about treating Dorothy and advancing his career. Yet the pain he felt was intense and real, unlike anything he had experienced in dreams. It was also accompanied by that certainty of consciousness one has when awake.
He couldn’t decide whether it was real or a compelling mirage.
But… what if, just for the sake of argument, it were real?
Dorothy.
If they were in such a place, then he must help her.
Will stood, wincing at the pain in his joints. He saw the verdant fields and the golden path, but they were much farther away, now, as if he had traveled in the house to some more hostile region of Dorothy’s fantasy world.
Our world now, he amended.
He could just make out the four figures and the little dog, about to crest a small rise and then be out of sight.
Will cupped his hands and shouted as loud as he could. “Dorothy!”
He saw her turn, and wave. Was she hoping he’d follow?
He ran, trying to catch up to them. It was difficult to run on the black glass, and he was grateful he had worn tennis shoes today rather than his customary Oxfords. After a couple of minutes of hard running he realized that the fields did not seem to be getting any closer. Thinking this must be some kind of optical illusion Will ran even harder. He ran until he got a stitch in his side and collapsed, crying out in pain and frustration.
Will remained on all fours until he caught his breath, drops of sweat falling from his brow and pooling on the obsidian glass.
When he stood at last, he was confronted by yet another anomaly.
He was now standing before a great wall of black stone set with crimson mortar. The mortar was shiny and appeared wet. He touched it gingerly with an index finger.
It was blood.
Now he could discern skulls half buried in many of the bricks, their empty sockets peering out from some battle or catastrophe, their vacant orbits even darker than the stones that housed them.
Not all of the skulls were human, and he felt an atavistic chill run down his spine.
The wall ran toward the horizon in either direction, and was at least a hundred feet high. There was a large sign just over his head, and he had to back up several yards to read it properly.
TAKE HEED!
ALL FROM THE BLASTED LANDS AND
DEADLY DESERT ARE HEREBY BANNED
FROM THE EMERALD CITY OF OZ AND
ALL ITS PRINCIPALITIES AND TERRITORIES!
TRESPASSERS WILL BE MAGICKED!
BY ORDER OF OZMA, QUEEN OF OZ,
LOCASTA, GOOD WITCH OF THE NORTH &
GLINDA, GOOD WITCH OF THE SOUTH.
There was no way to follow Dorothy now. Will nearly collapsed as tears filled his eyes, but the horrific nature of the barrier was too much for him to bear. His heart heavy, Dr. William Price, formerly of Bramble, Kansas and Chicago, Illinois, walked back the way he came over the plain of black glass.
Though Will and Dorothy had arrived at the Gale farm at noon local time, he figured it was nearing that here in…
Go ahead, say it.
Oz, here in Oz.
He still felt ridiculous saying it, and in that self-criticism he felt a tiny spark of hope, that perhaps this was unreal, and he would, at some point, find himself back at the institute.
But as doctor, or patient?
He walked for at least two hours, and the plain of glass began to thin. The time element was guesswork on his part because his watch had ceased to function, the hands spinning crazily in opposite directions.
There were patches of what looked to be grass, though it was scarlet in color with tips of indigo. Bright cobalt blue flowers with stamens of silver and crimson grew in bright clumps within the grass. He bent down to smell one, but some corrosive chemical in the grass produced angry blisters on his fingers and palm. He instinctively sucked on the injured fingers, only to blister his lips.
Terribly thirsty, Will found shallow pools of tepid, stagnant water. It was ghastly and had a sharp, metallic taste, but he drank it anyway. It made his stomach cramp momentarily, but he was able to keep it down.
The glass gave way to rocky ground, and the scarlet grass and cobalt blossoms gave way to gnarled bushes of black wood with silvery leaves. Berries grew on these bushes, plump and pink with small orange and white dots. By now he was ravenous, but ate cautiously, afraid of something corrosive.
The berries had an unpleasant taste like meat just shy of spoiling, but they did fill his stomach. Some were infested with bright green worms. Remembering a documentary he had seen of Air Force survival training, he ate these as well.
He found himself walking through a small canyon threading through immense gray and black hills. Will didn’t know if he had dozed while walking or if the terrain had suddenly altered as dream landscapes are prone to do.
A large boulder lay in the path, and scrawled on it in a childish hand was the message
BEWAER THUH WEELURRS
Will was trying to figure out who or what were “weelurrs” when he heard a piercing, high-pitched shriek from up in the hills. The scream echoed throughout the canyon and was answered by others.
Will heard a strange whistling, and looked behind him.
Coming out of the hills was something that seemed to be a man on all fours with wheels at the ends of his arms and legs. He was dressed in some sort of patchwork leather tunic and breeches, and his hair was long and woven into a dozen braids which whipped behind him like frenzied snakes. His eyes were large and dark, no more human than a shark’s.
The worst part, though, was his mouth.
It was large, abnormally so, with upper and lower serrated plates instead of teeth. From that horrid mouth a banshee shriek bellowed forth as the creature approached him, faster than any accomplished human skater Will had ever seen.
Will ran through the canyon, looking in vain for a place to hide. The peculiar whistling the creatures’ wheels made as they crunched over the sand and gravel echoed in the hills around him, as was the terrible wailing of the Wheelers.
Will knew now he was being herded by a pack of the creatures, but didn’t know enough of the terrain to evade them. Any possible deviation from his desired path was quickly cut off by one of the creatures who would wail and snap at him until he returned to the main trail.
He saw with dismay that the canyon ended in a dead end, a sheer cliff face with no protrusions or gaps where he might gain purchase.
Will stopped at the wall and turned to face his pursuers, his heart thudding in his chest.
It’s an illusion, he told himself, a psychic test. These are your fears made manifest. Face them and you will conquer them.
Eight Wheelers rolled to within ten feet of him and stopped. The Wheeler he had first seen stood slightly in front of the others, and was obviously the leader. Two of the creatures were smaller and more delicate, but Will could not determine whether they were adult females or children.
The lead Wheeler moved forward and snapped at him, its eyes wide and fever-bright. Saliva flew from its mouth in viscous droplets.
Will touched his chest.
“Will. Friend.”
The Wheeler watched him, as if trying to decide whether this was a trick.
Will repeated the gesture.
“Will. Friend.” He then pointed at the Wheeler and said, “Who are – “
What happened next was so fast he could barely register the motion. The Wheeler struck like a snake and bit off most of his index finger. Will screamed in agony as blood spurted from his ruined finger and was quickly absorbed into the barren ground. He was sickened to see one of the cobalt flowers spring up, its seed obviously lying dormant until blood was spilled.
The other Wheelers shrieked and jostled one another as the leader gulped down his finger with same bobbing motions a crane makes swallowing a frog.
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Will pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped his hand. The wound was throbbing and burned with a searing pain. He wondered what infection was even now coursing through his system.
The lead Wheeler looked at the others and shrieked something in five harsh bursts. The others wailed back at him, then all eyes were on Will.
It was clear they meant to tear him apart.
There was a hollow booming sound then, and a roar of a lion.
It’s Dorothy, he thought, she’s come to get me.
A cunningly camouflaged door opened in the canyon wall, and a metal man and large animal emerged, but they were not Dorothy’s companions.
The metal man he had seen earlier had worn a gentle look and was burnished to a mirror-like shine. This thing was covered in rust, parts of it actually eaten away by corrosion. Its movements produced squeals and protesting shrieks that were nearly as abominable as the Wheelers. It carried a sort of halberd, the blade side serrated and the other a long spike with a barbed end. Its eyes were blue flickers like gas flames, and steam issued from a grille fashioned to look like a sadistic smile.
The Rust Man’s animal companion was a huge patchwork dog. It’s variegated hide was crazy quilt of furs and hides from some twenty different animals, including tiger, elephant, zebra, ocelot, crocodile, cheetah and snake. It’s mouth and teeth were enormous. For it to swallow Will’s head would be no more inconvenient than a man taking a whole apricot into his mouth. Its eyes were dark like the Wheelers, and it wore a collar of small skulls strung together.
Children’s skulls, Will realized, and felt sick.
The Rust Man beat on his chest with one great fist, producing the low booming sound.
“I am the Rust Man,” he bellowed, “and this formidable creature next to me is Mr. Manyteeth, the Patchwork Jackal!”
The Wheelers muttered but did not advance.
The Rust Man gestured at Will.
“This man is property of the Wizard,” he roared. “Go or face the wrath of Nyx the Terrible and Merciless!”
“Eece him,” the lead Wheeler exclaimed, pointing to his own mouth while he drooled copiously.
“Go,” the Rust Man repeated.
“Eece man, tayse gud! Maybay eece yoo toos!”
The Wheelers shrieked in agreement until Mr. Manyteeth the Patchwork Jackal decapitated one of the smaller Wheelers with one quick bite.
The Wheelers shrieked in fury but the Rust Man readied his weapon. The Wheelers, knowing they were outmatched, turned and rolled off into the hills, shrieking insults and promises of reprisals.
While the Patchwork Jackal finished the Wheeler in a series of sickening, crunching bites, the Rust Man approached Will.
“Thank you,” Will said, “I was sure –“
“We have to go, Will, the Wizard is expecting you.”
“How do you know me?” Will asked. “Did Dorothy send you?”
“Dorothy,” the Rust Man said, and looked at the Patchwork Jackal, who merely growled low. “Dorothy is the reason I am no longer in Kansas.”
Will gaped at him, then saw within the scabrous visage a face he knew.
Dr. Vincent Colby.
Dorothy’s former therapist.
“How…” Will began.
“If I knew that I would have gone back!” said the Rust Man, his voice filled with the angry squeal of shearing metal. “I took away that damn drawing she was always staring at and found myself here. Now… Now it’s too late to go back.”
Will looked at the creature, afflicted with a leprosy of oxidation, and realized there was no hospital in the world that could make him human again. What had been done was the most awful magic, and only magic might restore him. Then he realized what he was thinking and chided himself.
Magic. Superstitious wish-fulfillment.
The Rust Man’s smile grew wider, which was a terrible thing to see. “You think you are dreaming, or drugged.”
Will smiled. He had just realized his hurt finger was uninjured in the sober, waking world.
“Of course, Dr. Colby, I…”
“Don’t call me that!” The Rust Man screamed, bits of red flakes and foul-smelling oil flying from his grille as he approached Will with his battleaxe held high.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you!”
The Rust Man nodded and lowered the halberd.
“We don’t go by our Kansas names.” He saw the puzzled expression on Will’s face. “To the indigenous people of Oz, our world is known as ‘Kansas’.”
Will was still convinced he was dreaming or hallucinating, but had no idea how long he might be in this state. Since he could feel intense pain here, he decided he would do everything possible to make his experience free of discomfort.
It seemed his best option in that regard was to gain the trust of the Rust Man and the Patchwork Jackal.
“Dorothy likes me,” he began. He saw the Rust Man tense, so he continued quickly. “If we can find her, I’m sure the Wizard or Ozma could undo this um… enchantment you are under. Then the two of us can figure out how to return to Kansas.”
The Rust Man looked at him as if he were an idiot, and Mr. Manyteeth the Patchwork Jackal snickered.
“We are banished to the Deadly Desert, Doctor Price, don’t you know that? Don’t tell me you missed her sign, the one as big as the side of a barn?”
“But, I haven’t done anything,” Will protested.
The Rust Man and Mr. Manyteeth laughed.
“You haven’t done wrong, my friend, you are wrong. Your type is an anathema to all the sweet creatures of Oz… You have to come to Oz with an open mind, doctor. An open mind and the heart of a child. You, you’re an intellectual. You believe that only what is reasoned and rational is worth consideration. But don’t worry, our Wizard wants to put you to good use.”
The Rust Man whistled, a shrill, unpleasant sound. Several bent and misshapen gnomes emerged from the cliff. Four grabbed Will and wrestled him to the ground where they held him fast. Will shouted and struggled, but the gnomes were far too strong.
A fifth gnome appeared, bent under the weight of a large basket filled with the caustic scarlet grass.
Will’s clothes were torn from him, and he saw with horror that the Rust Man was now sharpening the blade of his halberd on a portable grinding wheel. Sparks and smoke filled the air and the Patchwork Jackal sneezed, his skull collar rattling.
“What are you doing?” Will cried, but the Rust Man ignored him until his task was done.
He stood over Will, an oxidized parody of a man, the only part of him shining and new the terrible weapon.
“You’re going to be the new Scarecrow of Nyx,” he announced. “To accomplish this, I am going to split you open,” he told Will matter-of-factly. “Mr. Manyteeth the Patchwork Jackal will dine on your entrails while my gnomes stuff you full of firegrass. Don’t worry, we’re going to leave that wonderful brain of yours intact.”
The gnomes tightened their grip. Mr. Manyteeth licked his chops as the Rust Man raised his halberd.
Will saw with sudden clarity that it was all real. Tears sprang to his eyes and he began to convulse with fear as he cried out to his former colleague.
“Please, please! How can you do this?”
The Rust Man chuckled bitterly.
“It’s easy… when you don’t have a heart.”
The End.
Pumpkinhead
by Rajan Khanna
Mr.P walked out of his pumpkin-shaped house and paused on the edge of the garden path. Even in the waning light, I could tell that the colour in his face, which should have been a bright, glossy orange-gold, had faded to a dull fuscous hue. The skin sagged with a grayish cast. I had only picked that one a week earlier.
He bent his round head to the side and tapped it with one gloved hand. When he righted it again, he stared at me a moment before speaking. “I think there’s something wrong with this one,” he said.
“It’s deteriorating,” I said, smoothin
g down my dress. “But it looks like it still has some life in it. A few days at least.”
“No, it’s…it feels a bit odd on the left side. And my vision…I think I’ll need a new one right away. I keep…seeing things.”
“Okay,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “I’ll get you a new one right away. Do you want me to take it to her to carve?”
“No,” he said. “There’s no time. I’ll have to do it myself.”
I nodded and went to pick a new pumpkin. The blight was getting worse. I would have to step up my efforts.
Luckily for me, I wasn’t dependent on the usual growing times that such pumpkins would require. While it would normally take months, Mr. P had supplied me with packets of Dr. Nikidik’s Magical Powder of Growing, obtained from one of his high-placed connections, which meant I could cultivate a new crop in less than a week.
I walked among the golden rinds, finally selecting one that was suitable for my employer’s purposes - large, evenly shaped and firm. I picked it, then brought it inside.
Mr. P sat at the table, his sagging head leaning against one gloved hand. It was tilted slightly to the side and he was waving the free fingers of his other hand in the air.
“Mr. P?” I said.
He tilted his head toward me. “Call me Jack,” he said, for the hundredth time. But I couldn’t. He was my employer, but more than that, he was a celebrity, and a close personal friend of the queen. In fact, if it wasn’t for his imminent need, she would be the one about to carve this pumpkin for him. He was basically part of the royal family.
He held out his hands and I placed the pumpkin into them. His arms, which he kept covered at all times, were little more than wooden sticks, like broom handles, but they were strong and sturdy and he pulled the pumpkin closer, cradling it for a second before placing it on the table in front of him.
Fascinated, I longed to watch as he carved it, to see how it was done, but it was such an intimate act, so very personal, and I couldn’t bear to intrude upon it. As the knife penetrated the rind and into the tender inner flesh, I turned and left the house and returned to the field where I belonged.
Shadows of the Emerald City Page 3