The head fidgeted a moment then rolled to it’s side, so it was facing Mazy and the outline of the stove behind him.
“That? I wouldn’t know about that,” Mazy said, dusting himself off. “It must have been someone with a match.”
“‘A match.’” The scarecrow’s face showed a twinge of fear, then an expression of deep thought. “I’ll remember that, always. Thank you—I don’t know your name.”
“My name is—”
“I don’t remember my name, now that I think about it.”
Mazy thought too, and realized he hadn’t bothered to ask the name of the dead soldier he was building. Just as well, he thought. He took a timid step towards his workbench, and the scarecrow’s head fidgeted again and rolled off the bench and hit the floor. Then it rolled to Mazy’s feet where it stopped, the scarecrow’s ponderous face looked up at his. The sight started him so, he reared back a leg to kick it away.
Don’t, he reminded himself. It can see you now.
He reached down and picked up the head and carried it at arm’s length back to the workbench, then carefully placed it back from where it had fallen.
“Thank you,” it said. “Did you make me?”
“Aye.”
“And is that my body?”
“Aye.”
“And are those my clothes?”
Mazy’s eyes narrowed.
“Aye.”
“They look familiar.”
“Hush now,” Mazy said. He looked about his workshop, trying to concentrate.
“What are you doing now?”
“I said hush.”
The sky outside his window grew closer to dawn with a glaze of orange cutting through the bruised blues of the tenebrous sky. Nearly done and then he could be rid of this abominable scarecrow for good. He needed to be smart as well as quick, however. The head was still the only living part of it, but Mazy suspected the body would be just as fitful once he placed the head atop it. That will be the final straw, he thought.
The scarecrow watched in silence while Mazy gathered his things in a rush.
A wheelbarrow would suffice. He hustled outside and grabbed a rood-tree he’d made the evening prior, and chucked it in the wheelbarrow. Then, he came back in the shop and retrieved the giant rag doll of a body and carried it over his shoulder outside, it’s boneless limbs dangled nearly to the floor. He threw it onto the rood-tree where it waited like a decapitated soldier. The image of it made Mazy shiver.
“Where are we going?” the scarecrow asked from inside.
Mazy marched into the workshop and grabbed the head of the scarecrow and headed back out without as much of a word. Quit giving it answers, you old coot. Ignore it and be gone with it. He set the head firmly on the lap of the scarecrow’s body, making sure to keep it clear from the torso.
“I can’t see! I can’t see!” it yelled, it’s voice muffled with the face planted in it’s crotch.
Mazy jerked the scarecrow’s face back into view and pointed it as best he could so it faced forward.
“Now be quiet,” he said.
Despite the shortness of his Munchkin legs, Mazy pushed the wheelbarrow with a determined haste until he reached the end of the cartroad and the awaiting Tick-Tock Man. He stopped, lowered the wheelbarrow’s back end with a huff, and met the Tick-Tock Man’s mechanical stare.
“There,” he said in exasperated triumph. “There’s your buggerin’ scarecrow.”
The Tick-Tock Man stepped to the wheelbarrow, bent slightly towards it, and looked. The gears on it’s face and chest turned and wound. Then stopped.
“Hello,” the scarecrow said.
A flit of steam jetted from the side of the Tick-Tock Man’s head.
“This is not finished.”
Mazy’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? It’s all there. When the Witch gets here, tell her she can just plop the head on the body and the body on the rood, and that’ll be that. She knows where the head goes, don’t she?”
“Who’s he?” the scarecrow asked with an attempt at nodding towards the Tick-Tock Man, which almost sent the head rolling off it’s own lap.
“Shut up.”
“You must finish it.” The Witch’s servant pointed a brassy-metal finger at Mazy’s nose.
“Wha—but I don’t even know where she wants it put? I put that head on that body, and the thing will be running all over the place.”
“It is not far. I will show you.” The Tick-Tock Man turned and started it’s lurching march down the lane, away from the cartroad to Mazy’s home.
Mazy wanted to object, but saw the sun cresting over the hills. Eastward was his direction now and there was to be no more arguing, he knew it. With a sigh, he lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow and followed the Tick-Tock Man towards the rising sun.
“What is that?” the scarecrow asked from it’s perch. “It looks like fire.”
“Would you quit yammerin’?”
The walk was short, and Mazy was grateful they only had to walk to the crossroads where the lane met the Yellow Brick Road. The sun broke completely away from the hillside when they stopped. Mazy’s nerves tingled like bramble bushes.
“Place the scarecrow here,” the Tick-Tock Man instructed, and pointed it’s brassy finger to the edge of the cornfield.
“Why here?” Mazy asked.
“Yes, why here?” the scarecrow echoed with a much more curious tone.
“The child soldier will pass here next midday. This is where they must meet.”
Mazy looked down the south-east stretch of yellow bricks. The child soldier would pass here soon. They stood in a spot not far at all from his home. The war was coming too close for his liking. What kind of violence and mayhem might come with this prophesied girl? he wondered.
“You must finish it. You made an agreement.” The un-Munchkin voice of the Tick-Tock Man ran up Mazy’s backbone like a rake.
He looked down and saw, with his back to the risen sun, his shadow casting long over the scarecrow and into the cornfield. His cornfield. I’ll never be rid of it, he thought. Even when it joins that girl, it’ll still be here haunting me. I never should have done it. I should have burned it.
“Who is this girl? Is she good?” the scarecrow asked.
As Mazy, defeated, pulled the rood-tree from under the scarecrow and set out to the corner of his cornfield, the Tick-Tock Man answered.
“Yes. She is our savior. And you will help her fight.”
“Like a war?”
“Yes.”
Mazy returned to the wheelbarrow. The rood-tree stood erect on the edge of the cornfield, and cast a long, narrow cross of a shadow over his property. He picked up the scarecrow’s body and carried it to it’s perch, leaving the head behind face up with the Tick-Tock Man.
“Yes, a war,” the scarecrow said.
Mazy looked back over his shoulder, noting a hint of anger in the scarecrow’s voice. Not a lot, not even a little, but he heard it.
“You must be brave,” a new voice sounded. “And you must be careful. For you are not invulnerable.”
It was a woman’s voice—angelic and sweet—that Mazy knew at once. With the scarecrow’s body hung in place, he turned to see. The Good Witch of the North stood at the Tick-Tock Man’s side, tall and radiant, as if the sun had risen just for her. The sun crowned her head while her shadow reached out and beyond Mazy.
She looked up from the scarecrow’s head to Mazy.
“Hello, Mazy. I see your task is almost at an end,” she said with a warm smile with entranced and frightened the Munchkin farmer at the same time.
“Y-yes. Just about d-done,” he answered. “Anything for Oz.”
“It gladdens me to hear it.”
“Oh, I’ll be brave, miss,” the scarecrow said. “And I’ll be careful too. I’ve been burned before.”
“Is that so?” the Good Witch asked, looking down then casting a knowing eye to Mazy.
“Oh yes. Twice. But I couldn’t see who did it because I
had no eyes.”
“Indeed. Well, I’m sure whomever was responsible regrets it greatly.”
“Aye,” Mazy said timidly. “I’m sure they do.”
He reached with nervous hands to pick up the scarecrow’s head and finally be done with it, be done with them all. The scarecrow’s voice spoke up again, though. A minatory voice.
“They will regret it. Because when I finish helping this girl with her war, I’ll find the one who burned me.”
Mazy’s spine prickled with an icy flash.
“I’ll find them and then I’ll burn them.”
Mazy’s face was ashen despite the rays of sunshine casting on him. He grabbed the scarecrow’s head and rushed to unite it with it’s body.
“You mustn’t hold a grudge, scarecrow. ’Tisn’t right.” He hurried to the propped-up effigy and plopped the head on the shoulders. Not wasting a movement of his hands, he tucked the scruff of the burlap sack into the collar of the dead soldier’s tattered uniform, then ran back to the side of the road and waited alongside the Good Witch of the North and her Tick-Tock Man.
“Maybe you’re right, kind Mazy,” the scarecrow said. Then it’s eyes widened and it’s mouth gaped. It stayed stock-still for a second. And then, a foot moved. A twitch, really. The timeworn boot at the bottom of the scarecrow’s left leg spasmed, followed by the right. The arms were next, as the gloved hands flailed about. “I can move!” it cried out in delight.
The scarecrow remained on it’s perch, though. A nail held it to the cross, pinning it in place. The scarecrow was too happy and curious to care. It danced in place, suspended a mere foot above the soil.
“My goodness. I can move.” It stilled and tilted it’s head. “What was I talking about before?”
“You’ve done well, my little Munchkin,” said the Good Witch.
“So I am done, then?” Mazy said, looking up at her kind face with an desirous expression. “I can go home and be done with it and never have to look at it again?”
“Our agreement is complete,” she answered, and restrained a giggle. The Tick-Tock Man watched the scarecrow with impassive interest. The Witch went on, “You may go home with my thanks and gratitude.”
“And what about my reward?”
“Why, you have it,” she said. “My thanks and my gratitude.”
Mazy’s flushed face blushed with a renewed rush of blood.
“That’s—that’s not fair. My crops, my farm. If war is coming, I need assurance they’ll be safe from harm. I have a livelihood to think of.”
“Listen well, Mazy of Munchkinland,” the mirthful tone of the Witch receded. Her expression hardened. “You are correct in that war is indeed coming. And you’ve done well, as I previously stated. But, heed my words. You are a citizen of Oz and you have been called to serve in these trying times. You want more than the reward that I have graciously given to you? Here it is.” She pointed to the scarecrow.
“The scarecrow’s mind is still nothing but the bits of straw with which you stuffed it. It is alive, be clear on that, and it will learn more and more as the day grows.” Her voice turned to a whisper. “You sent our soldier’s new head into the fire, not once, but twice. And it wants revenge. Your reward, my avaricious ally, is a guarantee. I will guarantee to you that the scarecrow will have no memory of you or what atrocities you committed. Your crops are not my concern. You have your own scarecrows to protect your corn. That is your reward.
“Now, do you find this satisfactory?” she asked, her cheerful voice restored.
The Tick-Tock Man watched Mazy now with the same impassive interest. Mazy’s throat recoiled.
“Aye,” he muttered.
“I’m pleased you prefer the grace of the good over the wrath of the wronged.”
The Good Witch of the North and her mechanical servant said their goodbyes, then whisked off into the eastward sky, above the risen sun and the looming clouds, riding the winds in a great pink bubble.
Left with the scarecrow, Mazy looked one final time to his creation. His abomination. It’s stare stayed transfixed on the point in the horizon where the bubble had disappeared. Seemingly mindful it and it’s passengers were gone, the scarecrow looked down at the Munchkin farmer.
“Hello. Who are you? And how did I get up here?” it asked. It flicked it’s arms and legs in an attempt to move, but caught on it was perched beyond it’s control.
“I wouldn’t know that, scarecrow. Goodbye.”
Mazy never looked back to see if it watched him walk back to his farm. He hoped the Good Witch’s guarantee would hold, and he wouldn’t wake up one day not long from now to be surrounded by the same fire he’s doomed the scarecrow to the previous night. He sped up his pace, leaving his wheelbarrow behind. He buy another if he had to.
The last thing he heard from the scarecrow that morning, carried on the morning breeze at his back, was something that staggered his steps.
“It must have been someone with a match,” it said, as it watched the sun rise.
The End.
Not in Kansas Anymore
by Lori T. Strongin
The girl raised a cigarette to her bright red painted lips and took a long drag, then slowly allowed the smoke to escape into the light rain soaking Oz. She imagined dragons dancing upon the thick, fragrant fog, their voices whispering of another time, another world. In the distance, a yellow glow shone in the near-darkness, rising from the earth. Twining like a snake. A cold breeze rustled her black robe, and sent chills along her twisted spine.
The other woman sat huddled on a broken patio chair, fingers trembling around her half-empty glass of Oz-Berry wine. Her faded pink kimono did little to protect her from the rain.
“We should’ve smoked inside. Why’d you want to come out here?”
Damp brown hair fell over her shoulders. The red-lipped girl took a final drag and flicked her cigarette off the balcony into the seemingly endless darkness.
“I like to get out of there once it calms down.” Her gaze dropped. “You know I can’t stand the silence…”
The words didn’t need to be said. After all, Glinda had been there, all those years ago; had watched what that green-faced thing did to her.
And didn’t muss a single golden curl to help, the bitch.
The sky had looked the same back then—heavy with rain and faded memories. She hadn’t known then that Oz was the place where youthful innocence went to die; where broken glass met broken hearts, and blood was just graffiti on emerald green walls.
The screen door slammed open. Heavy footsteps splintered the wooden planks beneath metallic feet.
“Damn it, I’ve been looking all over for you, Do—”
“Don’t say that name!”
The Tin Man nodded and adjusted his funnel hat.
“Almost forgot.”
She regretted extinguishing her cigarette.
“You were looking for me?”
“Oh, yeah.” He shifted, rusted hinges creaking. “Boss Man says you’ve got another set tonight.”
“Screw that! I’ve done three already.”
“You don’t like it, take it up with the Wiz.”
Tin slammed the screen door behind him.
Silence. Not even the pervy Munchkin peepers inside the club made a sound.
Glinda took a shaky sip from her wine glass.
“Four sets ain’t so bad.”
The red-lipped girl had a vision of ripping those big blue eyes right out of the blonde’s skull.
She walked back into the ramshackle club, ignoring the leers and catcalls of Winkies and Quadlings, and kicked one overeager Gilikin in the crotch. The pounding throb of drums hurt her ears. A spotlight followed her every movement. But then again, hadn’t it always, ever since she first came here?
What she wouldn’t give for a chance to go back and make things right. Tell the wizard to screw himself and find her own way home.
Home.
Oz had the power to make people forget. Already she’d lost
the faces of the woman who beat her and of the man that had initiated her into womanhood at the ripe old age of thirteen on a pile of filthy straw in the hay loft.
How sad was it that she’d rather go back to her auntie and uncle than live in this magical place?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice echoed over the gramophone. “Flatheads and Cuttenclips of all ages. She defeated the Wicked Witch of the West with her bare hands. She crossed the Impassable Desert just to be here tonight. Give it up for Oz’s first and last royal, the Lost Princess herself, Kansas!”
A new song spilled out of the music box, this time slow and sensual. She stepped onto the rickety makeshift catwalk, running her calloused hands across her stomach and thighs. The black silk felt cool under her fingers and more real than anything else she owned.
The tempo sped up. Kansas let the robe slide off her shoulders. The blue checkered teddy barely covered her tits, and hardly anything further south. Damp pigtails slapped her face and her prop wicker basket was so old it sagged every time she swung it.
Her shoes, though. Those still shone silver, tinted like the harvest moon rising above her aunt and uncle’s farmhouse, back when her life made sense. Back when she gave a damn if she ever made it home again or not.
“Come on! Dance!” someone shouted from the crowd.
“Shake it, baby! Yeah!”
“Take it off!”
She obeyed. What else could a lost farm girl from Wichita do?
Rain spattered against the covered the patio, the awning just wide enough to keep her cigarette dry. Dawn rose over the horizon. Another day, another dollar down her g-string, and another man thinking he had the right to take her to bed.
She may have bruises in the morning, but that Pumpkinhead would never get it up again.
“Dorothy? Dorothy Gale from Kansas?”
She growled, fingers bent, ready to claw the bastard that dared say that name.
Kansas spun around, ready to lunge.
A scrawny figure stood in the rain, jaunty hat cocked to the side and painted smile wide as the day they’d met.
Shadows of the Emerald City Page 36