Shadows of the Emerald City

by J. W. Schnarr

  “Scarecrow?”

  “In the flesh! Well, straw, at least.”

  His voice had so many echoes—of friendship, of happiness, of comfort, and all the things Kansas had left behind long ago.

  She felt like her fourteen-year-old self as she ran into his arms. Kansas didn’t care who might be watching, or if his straws poked her skin. It didn’t matter. He was here.

  “Sweet crow in the morning, I’ve missed you.” He released her and took a step back. His black-button eyes raked her up and down. “What’s happened to you, girl? You look like something the barn cat coughed up.”

  Still clad in her costume, she was inclined to agree.

  “Where have you been, Scarecrow? I haven’t seen you in an Oz Age.”

  The painted smile slipped.

  “I’ve seen you.”

  “You have? When? Why didn’t you come and say hi? I thought the Witch—”

  His gloved hand covered her mouth. He smelled like damp grass and singed leaves.

  “When’s the last time you left Shiz?”

  She couldn’t remember.

  “What’s the point in leaving? Here I get food, a bed, and smokes.”

  Scarecrow shook his head.

  “There’re posters of you all over Bunbury City. Everyone knows your name and rumours are flyin’ about this place.”

  Was it bad if Kansas didn’t care if someone found her?

  “So?”

  “If they find you, they’ll kill you.”

  Kansas looked away.

  “Dorothy—”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  He backed away, hands raised.

  “You’ll always be Dorothy to me.”

  It was too much. His kindness was more than she could bear. She had to get out of there. Away from old wounds.

  A straw-filled hand grabbed her shoulder.

  “Let me go!”

  “Not ‘til you’ve heard me out.”

  Slapping him wouldn’t work—he couldn’t feel pain.

  “I swear if you don’t let me go right now, I’ll set your hay-covered carcass on fire!”

  His hand didn’t slip.

  “You can’t be happy here. I know you’re not. And you deserve better than this.”

  The fight flooded out of her.

  “What does it matter?”

  He cupped her face. Great Oz, how long had it been since someone touched her with tenderness?

  “You matter. I think you’ve forgotten that.”

  She swallowed. “Oz makes people forget.”

  “Good thing I’m not a people then.” Scarecrow reached into a tattered pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment. “Here.”

  Kansas reached for it, hand shaking. Why did she feel that something bad was about to happen?

  Oh, right. It’s Oz. Bad things always happen here.

  She unfolded the thick paper. Curved shapes scored the cream-colored sheet, swirling like cigarette smoke. If she squinted, she could almost make out a rocking chair and striped sock from the jumbled nonsense.

  “You an artist now?”

  “Huh?”

  “Looks like doodling to me.”

  Scarecrow looked confused.

  “I don’t get it. How come I can read this and you can’t?”

  Kansas couldn’t care less.

  “Well? Don’t you want to know what it says?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “It’s a map. A treasure map.”

  Wonderful.

  “Well, have fun with that. I’ve gotta get some sleep. The Wiz has me working a double tonight.”

  She turned to leave, knowing she’d probably never see Scarecrow again. Hay-headed idiot’ll probably get himself picked apart by flying horses or something.

  “It leads to a time portal!”

  Kansas stopped, silver shoes glued to the porch. Did he just say…

  He spun her around, childlike enthusiasm in his every glance, every word.

  “It’s where I’ve been all this time, looking for a way to get you back home after the slippers turned out to be a hoax. I remembered what you told me once about wadges.”

  It took her a minute to translate his words. “Do you mean ‘watches?’”

  “Yeah, those timey-whymy things you said people used to change the time.”

  Just like that, her hopes crashed and burned. Served her right for letting herself get carried away, even for a second.

  “You can’t change time with a watch, Scarecrow. It doesn’t affect anything.”

  “Maybe not where you’re from,” he said, grin ridiculously wide. “But they do in Oz.”

  Kansas didn’t know whether to believe him or get him a good stiff drink.

  “Tell me more.”

  “The map leads to the Time Dragon. It’s a ma-chine that makes time. All we gotta do is find him and ask to turn back the Great Clock to before you came to Oz. It’s as simple as a cornfield!”

  “You’ve forgotten one thing, Straw-for-Brains.” She crossed her arms. “We do that, the Witch comes back to life. Remember what Oz was like before I doused her?”

  “Yeah, I do. Animals were free to speak, the Emerald City had jobs, and you didn’t have to wear things like that just to earn a couple o’buckeroos.”

  Kansas’ breath caught in her throat.

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  Scarecrow took her hands in his and gave them a little squeeze.

  “Yup. I’m sayin’ we ask the Time Dragon to send you home and bring back the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  The yellow glare of the bricks hurt Kansas’ eyes. Never in a million Oz Ages had she thought she’d ever willingly step foot in this place again, map or no.

  Ten years was a long time. And yet, not long enough.

  Munchkinland looked like the victim of a runaway corn thrasher. Everything was brown and gray. None of those bright flowers bloomed or sent sweet perfumes into the air like she remembered. The colorful paint on the houses had chipped and flaked off. Doors and shutters hung off their hinges like deflated hot air balloons.

  Through the open windows, Kansas could see upturned cups and plates, covered in rotting food, as if whatever happened here was sudden. The place smelt like old vomit and urine, and not a sound broke the silence, save Kansas’ own raspy breaths.

  Of course, the dead bodies strewn everywhere made it all so much worse.

  Scarecrow’s whispers sounded like an explosion in the silence.

  “Great crow in the morning, what happened here?”

  Everywhere Kansas looked, Munchkin bodies lay on the broken road, propped against the sides of the buildings, or half-hung out of windows, hands spread wide as if begging for mercy. Clothing rotted off their bodies, as black and formless as their decaying skin. The forgotten, nameless corpses lay over piles of bloody straw and hay.

  All were headless. Just broken bodies and limbs. But no faces. No ears to hear or mouths left to scream.

  A terrible smell wafted from the water well. Kansas didn’t want to think about what she might find down there.

  “What could have done this?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  The wheat fields were all brown and dead. It reminded her of the farm after a hard summer with no rain. A river ran through the field, the thick water painted red. If she closed her eyes, she could still see the Munchkin children playing in those fields; hear their laughter and music as they celebrated their freedom from the Witch of the East. Her gaze drifted toward the ramshackle house, the hut that had been her home and prison for more than half her life. It looked like a headstone in this cemetery of death. She felt the weight of the cigarette lighter in her pocket and the urge to set the damn shack on fire. The town, too.

  Kansas took a deep breath through her mouth.

  “There’s nothing we can do here. The Munchkins are long dead. Let’s keep moving.”

  Scarecrow looked like he might cry. Kansas wondered if he even could.


  “B…but, they were our friends.”

  Kansas stepped over a tiny headless corpse, Kansas slippers tapping a staccato rhythm against the golden flagstones.

  “I just want to go home.”

  Scarecrow sputtered, but followed, his loose hay scraping the stones clean.

  “The map says this should be a corn field. But I don’t see no corn.”

  Kansas shrugged. The map looked like something Toto might have used as a chew toy, before a Roc Roc ate him seven years ago.

  “Maybe the river flooded and turned the field into a swamp,” she suggested. The brown reeds that poked out of the bubbling mud might once have been maize stalks. The place certainly smelled like something had rotted here.

  “Come on.” She tapped the soaked ground with a toe. “Follow my footsteps so you don’t fall in.”

  Spongy earth squelched with each careful step she took. Pools of oily-colored water bubbled and steamed on either side of her path. Clumps of dead grass sagged as she stepped on them, sloshing mud over her shoes and up her bare legs. The foul ooze coated the bottom of her robe. Grimacing, she followed the zigzag of half-submerged stones as they wound through the maze-like swamp.

  A thick fog hung over the pools of water. Kansas clapped her hands over her nose and mouth. She knew that smell. Liquefied flesh. Like the Witch, after Kansas threw the bucket of water at her.

  Kansas gagged. Scarecrow started to rub her back, but she jerked away. She didn’t like people touching her. Especially there.

  They were halfway across the swamp before Scarecrow spoke again.

  “Doro—”

  “I told you! Don’t call me that!”

  He huffed, then cleared his throat.

  “Uh, Kansas, do you hear that?”

  Only the sounds of her own stilted breathing and the wet squelch of the muddy earth reached her ears.

  She frowned. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What—”

  Something grabbed her foot. Pain flared through her whole body. Kansas screamed and fell to her knees. A white tendril with barbed hooks rose out of the muck, curling around her ankle, drawing blood. The spur dug into her leg, pulsing and quivering, yanking on her bones. Scarecrow shouted something, but Kansas couldn’t understand it over the sound of her screams.

  Then, the pain disappeared…along with all the bones and nerves and muscles in her foot. Just a formless lump of flesh hanging off her leg.

  Dazed, she stared down at the hooks embedded in her skin, rippling like overfed slugs.

  Sweet Ozma, the thing was drinking her!

  She ripped the bone-white creature off her foot and threw it into the muck. More ghostly tendrils shot up out of the swamp, surrounding them like an endless field of grotesque spider-like legs.

  Scarecrow grabbed her, hauling her off the ground so fast that her world swirled in a dizzy fog. Her heart pounded in her ears. Cradling her to his scratchy chest, Scarecrow ran. Tendrils chased them, shooting out of the mud faster than a flying monkey. Scarecrow dodged a low-lying tendril and tripped. Kansas flew out of his arms.

  Then, water. And mud. Choking her. Pulling her under. Dragging her down.

  She let her body sink.

  The water was cool. And quiet. It was peaceful.

  Murky water filled her mouth. A thin trail of bubbles wound away from her mouth, toward the distant surface.

  She couldn’t bring herself to care.

  If I’m dead, at least I’d be free.

  A shaft of sunlight broke through the dank. It shone over her like a star. Then a figure blocked the yellowish ray.

  Scarecrow.

  His muffled shouts broke through the silence; broke her apathy. She couldn’t leave him all alone up there. Who knew what those creatures would do to him? Kansas swam toward the surface. Her lungs burned. Black spots danced in front of her clouded vision. Her whole body ached. Scarecrow’s voice grew louder, yet further away.

  She wasn’t going to make it. She was going to drown, buried in a watery grave and no one would give two shits about it.

  Except Scarecrow.

  Kansas threw all the strength she had into one last kick upwards. Her fingers broke the surface. A coarse hand grabbed hers. Another reached down and grabbed her elbow. She rose, climbing through the muck.

  Sunlight.

  Air.

  Kansas gasped, her entire body shaking with the effort. She spat mud from her mouth and nose, desperate for a steady, clear breath.

  Hands pulled her close, rubbed her back and whispered soft words that didn’t mean anything. She didn’t need them to mean anything.

  Kansas opened her eyes and glanced over her shoulder.

  She quickly wished she hadn’t.

  The flesh-scented puddles around them bubbled furiously. Shapes emerged from the muck. They grew taller, gaining bodies and limbs. Jets of liquid burst over them, red as blood. The water washed the thick mud away.

  A herd of scarecrows surrounded them, still dripping mud and swamp slime. Male and female. All moldy and rotting away, limbs creaking and croaking. They wore overalls and fancy suits, sleeveless shirts and wedding dresses. Silver mist streamed out of their painted mouths, chilling the air. Covering their heads weren’t balls of yarn, but bloody scalps of every colored hair imaginable.

  Just like the Munchkinlanders.

  A scream died in Kansas’ throat.

  The scarecrows took a step toward her. One opened its painted mouth and made a sound like a drowning child. It sent chills down Kansas’ spine so cold she didn’t think she’d ever be warm again.

  The scarecrow spoke.

  “You…”

  It came closer. Kansas scrambled back, pressing into her Scarecrow’s chest.

  “You…”

  They were surrounded. They were trapped.

  “You…”

  Fear had always made her stupid.

  “Oh, spit it out, already!”

  “You failed us.”

  Scarecrow’s hold on her tightened.

  “What?”

  It pointed at her.

  “You saved him. Not us.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The scarecrow took another step toward her.

  “You rescued him. Pulled him off his rack. Not us. You left us here to rot. To die. For worms and crows to eat our straw.”

  “But…” She hadn’t known that! Damn it, she’d been fourteen; lost and confused, and had a psychotic witch out for her blood. “I…I’m sorry?”

  It reached toward her. It stroked the side of Scarecrow’s face.

  Then it tried to gouge his eyes out.

  Kansas pushed her Scarecrow backward. They landed in the mud. Kansas flipped over, heart pounding, ready to rip the other scarecrows’ apart if they dared come near them again.

  The circle of scarecrows swayed, like stalks of corn in a summer’s breeze. It reminded her of the day she first met her Scarecrow.

  The scarecrows stumbled forward, claw-like hands reaching and grabbing. Scarecrow yanked Kansas to her feet and slung her arm over his shoulder. They hobbled together, slipping all over the place, falling on hands and knees, then scrambling forward again. The others lurched after them, like toddlers learning to walk.

  Something grabbed her hair and pulled. Kansas screamed and fell backwards, her weight sending both her and the other scarecrow to the ground.

  “Dorothy!”

  A knife dangled in front of her face. The blade slid through her hair, twisting back and forth. She tried to pull away but the scarecrow’s grip on her hair didn’t let her move.

  She groped in the mud for something—anything—to help her escape. Where were those bone-eating slugs when you needed them?

  Something hard pressed into Kansas’ thigh. She reached for it and pulled her lighter out of her pocket.

  Please let this work!

  Kansas hit the rivet for the flint wheel, pinching her thumb but not caring a
bout the pain. White and blue sparks burned her hands, but the wick wouldn’t light.

  The knife trailed down her face, carving a shallow cut into her cheek. She hissed, but kept striking the spark coil.

  Then, flame, weak, but there. She tried to light a patch of grass by her hand, but couldn’t get the tinder to catch. The small fire sputtered, flickering.

  “Don’t you dare go out!”

  No good. The flame didn’t have enough dry tinder to catch. She tried it again, this time on her captor’s pant leg.

  The material was soaked through from the bog water.

  The scarecrow jerked her head back and placed the knife at Kansas’ throat.

  A straw-filled sleeve landed on top of Kansas’ feeble flicker. The flame caught the dry tinder and burst into life. Kansas picked up the non-burning end and waved it at the scarecrow. With a sound like a dying cat it released her and stumbled back toward the circle.

  The other scarecrows retreated. Kansas thought she saw fear glinting in their button eyes. But maybe that was just the shine of the orange-blue flame. She leaned forward, waving the blazing arm like a flag.

  A passing wind caught an ember from her makeshift torch. The breeze blew it into the knot of scarecrows, igniting several of them. They screamed; a terrible piercing sound. They beat their faces; spreading the blaze. They crumbled into a pile of ash

  “Get back or I swear I’ll burn all your miserable carcasses!”

  A low grumble moved through the group. One by one, they sank into the muck. Only a few ripples and flesh-scented mud bubbles marked that they’d ever been there in the first place.

  Kansas felt her heart jump back into her chest. All strength washed out of her and she lowered the torch. Hysterical laughter burst from her belly.

  “Did you see that? We did it!”

  She turned around. Scarecrow gave her a wide smile.

  Hers died.

  “Oh, Scarecrow.”

  He waved the empty stump where his left arm used to be.

  “Look, ma. No hands.”

  Numb. That’s what she was. That’s all she could feel as she crawled toward him. Shaking fingers ran over the straw-wound. Only a frayed piece of twine proved there had ever been anything there; that there had been an arm that protected her or a hand that once dried her tears.