“What’s Oz look like, anyway, Mr. Peregrine?”
Peregrine snapped his finger and the “yo-yo,” as he called it, jumped up into his palm. “Well, it’s quite a place, son. They got these big roads running all around it and through it—kind of like that one, except they’re made of big yellow bricks.”
“Really? That’s odd.”
“Naw. Kind of pretty, I hear. Anyway, there’s castles all over the place and, of course, the Wizard’s got the biggest one of all. Carnival tents and bazaars, merchants and artisans in their alfresco stands, a million smiling people crowd the big boulevards, singing and dancing, buying and selling! They have gardens that just kind of hang off the buildings, big terraces with every kind of flower in the world, statues and monuments all over the place. It’s a damned wonderland, I tell you.”
“How could there be any place like that?”
“What’s the matter? Don’t you believe me? You’ve believed me up till now.” Peregrine’s lips pushed into a pout.
“Mr. Peregrine, I didn’t say I don’t believe you. It’s just it’s hard to see how so many people could survive the hell that went across this planet so easily. What I mean is, where’d these ‘smiling people’ come from? What kind of power does this Wizard have, anyway?”
Peregrine laughs. “I told you it was a kind of magic stuff. That’s the thing, son. You go to believe in magic. Or it won’t mean nothin’ to you.”
Tag turned away from him and began poking a stick in and out of the fire. The light danced over his features, accentuating his disbelief.
“Then why’d you come with me?” said Peregrine, his lips trembling, his eyes glistening in the firelight.
“Because I was so glad to be with somebody… and I guess I was afraid to be alone anymore. I came with you because I was tired of living like some animal. You came along and told me there were people all over the world living like kings. I didn’t come with you because I wanted to believe in magic. Now talk sense!”
Peregrine sat just beyond the glow of the dying flames. His lips moved but no words were uttered. He mumbled to the darkness as he clenched his fists into tight knots. Slowly, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed.
Looking at him, Tag wished he hadn’t lashed out at him, crushed him like that. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m just tired. I—I haven’t walked this far in a long time. I’m sore and I’m beat up and I’m taking it out on you, that’s all. I didn’t mean it.”
Peregrine did not reply at first. He sat staring into the darkness, kneading one hand into the other. “Yes, you did,” he said finally. “You meant it. And I don’t blame you. Sitting around all day listening to the crazy stories of a crazy old man.”
Tag stared at him, a hunched, tragic figure. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Peregrine rubbed his beard nervously. “I don’t know… it’s just that—Naw, I don't know what I’m saying. You got me upset, I guess.”
Tag watched the man fingering the buttons of his shirt, avoiding his gaze. He couldn’t remember ever seeing someone as sad-looking as Peregrine sitting by the edge of the fire.
“This is really dumb, you know,” Tag finally said. “Here we are, the only two people for probably hundreds of keys, and we’re arguing with each other. Hurting each other. I don’t think any of us will ever learn anything, you know that?’
Peregrine chuckled. “Yeah, that’s the truth, ain’t it? Look, son, I understand how you feel about this thing. You just got to take my word for it, that’s all. Some things are hard to understand, and you just got to take’em on faith. The way I understand it, this Wizard fellow discovered a way to get by. He made it, but don’t ask me how, ‘cause I don’t really know.”
Tag studied Peregrine’s face, a mass of creases and sagging flesh, and saw the sadness, the pleading, there. “All right, I think I understand what you mean,” he said after a short pause. “I guess I’ll just have to wait till we get to Oz.”
Peregrine grinned and the sadness faded. “That’s about the size of it, son.” He stood up and stared into the night sky. “We better get some sleep, don’t you think? Long day again tomorrow.”
Tag agreed and they rigged a small tent Peregrine had cached in the cart. Within seconds of crawling in side, the old man’s breathing fell into a deep rhythmic patter, leaving Tag alone with his thoughts.
He dreamt of roads of yellow brick.
***
The morning arrived like an uninvited guest; the harsh, hazy light an annoyance that would not go away. Tag struggled out of the tent to find his body cross-hatched with different aches and pains. His bones, his joints, and the muscles in his thighs, shoulders, and neck, all stiff, unyielding. Despite the sun, he felt chilled and cold and damp. Thoughts of the warm clutter of his home did little to encourage him as he started a fire and boiled water for tea.
After Peregrine arose, they ate, packed, and struck out along the artery which stretched endlessly ahead of them. The bleak barren landscape never changed, a continuous swath of cracked earth, punctuated by an occasional thorny, tangled bush, a clutch of naked trees.
Rolling hills seemed to disappear as they approached them. There was a stark, wasted aspect to the land: no color, no smell, nothing. And yet, as they walked along dragging the cart, Tag could almost sense the land did not want them there—as if it had suffered enough indignity, and the presence of men only intensified the bitterness.
Still they walked on, pausing only to share a cup of warm water, saving their energy by remaining silent.
By afternoon they came upon the bones of a dead animal. It had probably been a rodent of some kind, although the skull had two small horn-like projections above each eye. Tag thought the formations might have been evidence of a new mutation in the species.
Walking only a short distance farther, they discovered another animal skeleton, bleached and picked clean of even its connecting tissue. And then another. And another. As they looked ahead, they saw more carcasses visible. Like little white coils of springs, the rib cages lay in a vast graveyard.
“What the hell is this?” said Tag, pointing to grisly remnants.
“I seen this kind of thing before,” said Peregrine, nodding to himself. “We're heading into some kind of bad spot. Must be off that way.” He pointed to the southeast.
“Yellow?” Tag felt uneasy at the mention of the plague.
“Yep. Any of these critters that happened to wander through this area probably picked up enough of 'the death' to knock it out quick.”
“But why just the bones? What could be coming along to eat the bodies? And even if they could eat, wouldn't the flesh be contaminated so bad they'd die anyway?”
“You'd think so, wouldn't you?” Peregrine laughed. “Funny thing, but it seems like that lizards and the insects don't seem to be bothered much by all them germs.”
“You're kidding.”
“No I ain't. Everywhere I been, I seen them lizards scuttlin’ around. They might be mutatin’ some, but they ain't dying. For all I know, they might be likin’ it, might be getting stronger from them germs. One fella I met near the Pacific—they got lots of desert out that way, and lots of lizards—he says that maybe the reptiles are fixing to take over again. This guy thinks that maybe the meteor and the weather and the plague and shit were just the catalyst to start them growin’ up big and terrible again. Just like them diney-sores, you know?”
“I don't think we should go any farther in this direction,” said Tag wanly.
“Hell, no!” Peregrine laughed. He paused and studied the sky. “Besides, if my bearings are right, we should be heading north just about now, anyway.”
“Really? You got any idea how much farther?”
“Not exactly. But my nose says we're getting pretty close.”
“Your nose?”
“Just an expression. I mean, I have a feeling it ain’t much farther. Maybe a day at most.”
They walked for another three hours in silence, angling away
from the artery and the deadly pocket it bisected. When they stopped, it was on a slight rise that overlooked a gently rolling terrain. Tag started a fire from some scrubby bushes and wiry hedge clinging to the rough soil, while Peregrine struggled to get the lines of the bright orange tent taut and secure.
After dinner, Tag looked up into the now-sunset sky. The stars had already started poking holes in it. “Hey, what's that?” Tag said to the old man, who was already rolling himself up in the tent.
“What's what?”
“I'm not sure, but look out there…” Tag pointed into the northeast. “What's that light—on the horizon?”
Peregrine rose to his knees, dusting off his baggy pants. He picked up his feathered helmet, seated it firmly on his head, and stood up to study the sky.
With each passing minute the dying sun revealed more of the night, and the glow, subtly green, beyond the horizon grew stronger by contrast.
“It's huge! Whatever it is…!” said Tag.
“I can remember when the whole sky used to burn like that,” said Peregrine. “When the meteor first hit, I thought it would always be like that.”
“Could there've been another meteor, a bomb or something?” Tag stared at the glowing piece of sky.
“Naw, that ain't no radiation. Too intense. Too goddamned bright! Goddamn, I don't believe it myself.”
“What do you mean?”
Peregrine laughed long and loudly, then giggled like a child. “That's a city! That's a city out there beyond them hills! Goddamned if it ain't Oz!”
“Really? We found it?”
“What else can it be? Come on, son. We can't camp here tonight. We got to throw all this shit in the wagon and get going!”
Suddenly the pain and exhaustion were forgotten, and Tag felt the adolescent thrill of discovery recharging him, spurring him on.
They walked as quickly as they could, in spite of the black moonless night. But the sky shimmered with the emerald lights of Oz diffused through the atmosphere. What a grand place it must be, thought Tag, transforming the sky itself into a beacon. He could almost hear the music in the street…
Then, without warning, Peregrine's voice cut through the night with a painful cry. “My leg! It's got my leg. Oh, God! Get it off!”
Tag dropped the tow-bar, started tearing into the canvas cover of the cart, groping desperately for the gun. In the darkness he could vaguely see Peregrine's silhouette, jack-knifed, writhing, arms flailing wildly at some unseen thing by his leg.
Something solid struck Tag's palm. The stock of the weapon. Hard. Smooth. He pulled it from beneath a pile of junk and ran toward Peregrine, who was now on the ground screaming, moaning.
“Get the sumbitch off a me! Jesus!”
Tag saw a long cigar-shaped thing; there was a hint of jaws and teeth, sunk into the flesh of Peregrine's calf. Tag swung the rifle over his head and brought the stock down hard on the animal. There was a sound like a stick wrapped in a wet towel being snapped.
“Still holding on, son! Get 'im off… Awshit, get 'im off…”
Tag reached down and felt a pulpy mass, scales, a bony skull and moist jaws clamped like a vise on Peregrine's leg. He pried the lower mandible back and the thing separated from the old man's ragged flesh.
“What is it? What was it?”
“Goddamned lizard. I don’t know. They must hunt at night. Oh God, it hurts. My leg's on fire!”
“I better get some light, Mr. Peregrine. You're bleeding pretty bad.”
Tag started a small fire and examined the wound in the flickering light. The bites were not deep, but they were extensive. Tag dressed and bandaged the leg as best he could, then stretched the old man out in the tent. The thing that had attacked him was all jaws and teeth, it seemed. It had thick scales and bands of color around its body, tiny little claws and a thick tail.
Tag made some tea, then checked on his traveling companion. His breathing was rough and irregular, and his forehead hot as an iron, peppered with beads of perspiration. He tried to get Peregrine to sip the tea, but most of it ran down his chin into his matted beard.
“Mr. Peregrine, what's the matter with you? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you,” he said, each word clipped, forced.
“Well, what's the matter? You didn't lose that much blood.”
“It ain't that, I think I got the poison in me.”
“What?” Tag felt the muscles in his neck and jaws constrict.
“That damn critter must have venom. Pretty strong shit, I figure. From the way it's getting’ me.”
“How do you feel? Can you drink this?”
“That won't help. I can feel that shit burning my lip. I ain't going to make it.”
“Don't say that.”
“Why not? True, ain't it?”
Tag reached out and took the old man's hand, squeezed it tightly. Peregrine's skin was hot, but covered with a film of clammy perspiration. His breathing grew more labored, shuddered, and racked him as he lay on his back. “You won't die. We're almost there. The Wizard can help you.”
Peregrine tried to laugh, coughed instead, almost choking at the end of it. “Son, I know the Wizard can't help me.”
“Why not?”
“ 'Cause there ain't no Wizard.”
Tag was confused, hurt, angered. The poison must have been very fast, very deadly. It was affecting the old man's mind. He was out of his senses. “What do you mean, no Wizard? Of course there is.”
“Ain't no place called Oz, either. No Nautilus. No King Hamlet, or none of that pure crap I told you about.” Peregrine looked up at him through dull eyes. Slowly the lids slid shut.
“Then what's that shining up in the sky ahead of us?' Tag squeezed the hand again.
“I don't know… but it ain't Oz.”
“How can you be so sure?” Tag felt for a pulse and found it frighteningly weak. “Come on, I'm going to carry you. We need to get help.”
Peregrine began to protest, but Tag lifted him up and slung him across his shoulder. The old man's ridiculous-looking helmet fell and rolled away from them.
The hours dragged past and Tag stumbled and staggered across the dark plain. Occasionally he stopped to check on the old man; each time his condition worse than before. If only he could get to the Wizard!
Another hour passed and suddenly Tag saw something breaking the edge of the horizon. Something solid, bright and blazing. It appeared to be the uppermost edge of an arc. He increased his pace, and with each step the vision grew more substantial.
A shimmering hemisphere of light, energy.
Tag gently lay the old man down. Shaking him, he spoke “Peregrine, look, we've found it. Look! Can you open your eyes?”
Peregrine moaned something unintelligible. His eyelids fluttered open, unseeing.
“It's part of a dome or something. See it? It's Oz, Peregrine, Oz.”
The light of the dome reflected in the old man's eyes. His bushy brows twitched once, his lips trembled. “It can't be…” His voice dry, hoarse.
“We're almost there. You're going to be all right,” said Tag, lying even to himself now.
“Leave me here,” said Peregrine. “Let me die outside.”
“Mr. Peregrine—”
“No!” the word was urgent, desperate. “But Listen…”
Tag waited as Peregrine struggled to finish the sentence. For a moment, he feared that he was already dead. Then Peregrine spoke again.
“… Just in case I was right, tell them…tell them that… Dorothy sent you.”
Tag leaned forward as Peregrine's eyes slid shut. “What’d you say? What? Who's Dorothy?”
Peregrine exhaled once, his shoulders slumped, his jaw sagged slightly, immediately recalling the grim pantomime of death the old man had once performed.
***
Tag buried him in the dry earth just as the sun was rising. The dawn overwhelmed the glow from the city, and if the dome burned, it remained invisible in the bright sun. Although Tag har
dly knew the man, he felt a great sadness. It seemed so unfair for him to die so soon after giving Tag new hope, new purpose. The old man’s death somehow struck him as more unjust than any of the others—perhaps even his own father's—and that made him feel worse.
He left the cart by the gravesite, untouched, unspoiled, like pharaohs with their barges in their tombs. Whatever was left of Peregrine lay tumbled under the canvas top, and Tag could not bring himself to disturb it.
By evening, his journey was almost at an end. Before him lay the City of Oz—there could be no doubt now—and he wished Peregrine had lived to see such grandeur. Beyond the haze of what must be a pale-green force-field, he could make out the countless spires and towers of a great city. The buildings were interconnected at various levels by graceful ramps, seemingly unsupported. The complexity of the architecture and the forced beauty overwhelmed him. And everywhere there was light and implied motion.
The closer he came to the outermost edges of the city, the more evidence he saw of what must have been a terrible battle fought here. Ragged, scorched ground, covered with the pitted hulks of half-disintegrated fighting machines, and an occasional skeleton, half buried in the windblown dust and debris. He walked amidst craters and troughs, torn up by the final descents of fiery aircraft. The battlefield reached up to the very edge of the force-field itself.
Still Tag pressed forward, not wanting to pause for either food or rest. So close now, he thought. So close. Except for the wind, whispering among the wreckage all about him, there was no sound. No music, he thought oddly. As he drew closer, he had the sensation of being watched, not by any particular person or thing, but rather by the city itself. It squatted before him like a great faceless creature, and abruptly Tag felt uneasy, almost threatened, for the first time since coming to this place. It was not so much the lingering smell of death about the place—for he had grown accustomed to death—but rather the odd quiet, sterile brightness of the city before him.
Something moved at the extreme limits of his peripheral vision.
Snapping his head to the left, he sought it out, but saw nothing. Then there came a sound. A clanking. Metal upon metal. Tag wished now he had violated Peregrine's possessions, that he had brought along the gun.
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