by Unknown
The Tin Man and the Scarecrow, having no circulatory systems, were immune to poppy pollen, which everyone agreed was unfair. They carried Dorothy out of the poppy field when she fell asleep, but the Lion was too heavy for them to bring along.
It looked as though the Lion was out until the Tin Man accidentally rescued the Queen of the Field Mice, earning a challenge advantage. The Queen of the Field Mice promised him a favor, which he immediately spent by asking her tiny, squeaking subjects to drag the Lion out of the poppy field.
A lady sitting near me gestured angrily at her emerald globe. “That doesn’t even make sense!”
Her hat was wide-brimmed with dense feathers, and her anger had caused her to gesture with such passion that she was in danger of losing her headgear to the water.
“It does seem a bit silly,” agreed a friend of hers who was wearing a rather more sensible cloche.
“Deus ex mus!” shouted a mustachioed gentleman.
“Stupid strategy,” someone else muttered. “They should have ditched Dorothy and the Lion and taken a ticket to the top two.”
“But they made a pact!” cried the lady again. “You wouldn’t leave behind a sweet girl like that, would you?”
“Bread and circuses, my dear fellows, bread and circuses,” said a man near the middle of the pool. He wore a homburg and a stern expression, reminding us that, as intellectuals, we were there to analyze, not involve ourselves in drama.
In our globes we saw the field mice returning. Squeaking, they emerged from the field of flowers, each harnessed with fine thread to a wagon.
Atop the wagon, the Cowardly Lion lay, drowsing, an upturned scarlet poppy capping his nose. He woke with a sneeze that sent the poppy tumbling.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “What happened? Is there a monster? Don’t let it eat me!”
His eyes were so round with fear that even the man in the homburg laughed.
After watching my fellow Emerald intellectuals discuss the poppy challenge, I learned two things. First, that I am strangely reassured to find that even the most jaded of my fellow Citizens can still feel tenderly for a lost child. Second, that the contestants had finally made their way to the emerald gates, and whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon.
I learned to cut gems while sitting—as the saying goes—at my grandfather’s knee. Literally on his knee, in my case; I needed the boost so I could see his worktable. I watched his face as often as I watched his hands. He squinted while he worked. His nostrils flared with concentration.
He was an unmade man by then, cast down from courtly heights to the small corner where my shop still resides. His days of working with Lurline emeralds were long past, but his unmatched work brought many aristocrats to him anyway, toting their unset sapphires and their rubies of unknown provenance.
Ozma herself had spared his life. With a yawn and a tinkling laugh, she’d said, “Oz must preserve beautiful things!”
Still, she let her witches weave chains around my grandfather’s ankles so that he could not leave his allotted rooms.
When customers came in, he’d sweep me off his knee and hand me a spare loupe. He’d push the loupe against my eye and then lean down, speaking quietly, so that no one could hear him. “Watch for the imperfections. There are imperfections everywhere. Never trust anyone who pretends to be flawless.”
Glinda finds the Scarecrow in the chamber on the outskirts of the royal sector that he’s been given for the night. He trips over the loose straw in his feet as he escorts her in and lands with a thump on the floor.
A concerned expression flashes across Glinda’s face. The Scarecrow waves it away.
“If I had a fit every time I did something stupid, I’d spend all day stomping around.”
He’s a good-natured fellow, the Scarecrow, quick to mock himself, which I’d guess he’d have to be with those guilelessly painted eyes and that swaying, straw-stuffed gait.
Glinda asks him why he wishes he had a brain. “That’s a good question!” he exclaims. “I don’t know why I think I want to think since I don’t have a brain to think I want to think with. But I’d like to think anyway. At least I think so. You think?”
He sits on the bed and leans against the emerald headboard. At his feet, there’s a pair of complimentary emerald-encrusted slippers, which must be awful to wear.
“I was only born the day before yesterday,” the Scarecrow says, “so maybe my opinion doesn’t count. But it’s awfully pretty, isn’t it?”
Glinda turns to see what he’s looking at. It’s sunset blazing through the window, reds and golds and violets refracting through the City’s crystalline towers.
The Scarecrow’s voice is lower when he continues. “I want a brain, but I think if I get one, I’ll be sad that my friends couldn’t get what they want, too. Is that what thinking gets you? Understanding that a sweet thing can be bitter, too?”
He looks sadly at Glinda.
“Maybe that’s not right. You’d know better than I do. You have a brain.”
Tonight. Whatever is going to happen will happen tonight.
Everyone in Flashgleam’s rebellion wears a watch that I have calibrated. When the tick tells me to, I depart the bathhouse—where everyone is still watching Glinda and the Scarecrow—and head into the corridor.
The City is a labyrinthine place, built as a single creation. It’s not like the towns out in Gillikin Country, where one house is distinct from the next. In the City, towers share walls and are connected by archways. Central towers look down on courtyards; those on the outskirts look out over Oz. The royal spire rises above all others, gazing imperially downward.
I work my way along jeweled corridors. Few people are out; most of the population is congregated in bathhouses and parlors. Those that aren’t walk swiftly, hunched over handheld globes.
I wear my grandfather’s cloak anyway. For disguise. For confidence.
The corridors grow increasingly ornate as I near the royal sector. Gold embellishes the archways. Statues of the Ozmas (their nameplates removed by the new regime) pose gracefully in niches. The hundred passages that wind through the City’s outskirts converge into a few main arteries.
From behind me I hear a page trumpeting. Footsteps echo. Bad luck for me. The royal pages have chosen to escort the contestants down this corridor.
I shrink against the wall. It’s best they don’t see me. I don’t want to be delayed.
Still, I admit, I’m fascinated to watch the finalists pass. The Tin Man walks first, each movement clanking. The Scarecrow follows, his straw fingers wrapped around those of the little girl. The Tin Man and Scarecrow look more wary than hopeful. Perhaps they are concerned that there will be another challenge waiting, or perhaps they are wondering whether everything that’s happened is a trick. The Tin Man tightens his fingers around his axe, and the Scarecrow clutches the little girl’s hand, both of them protecting her as best they know how.
Dorothy dances delightedly down the hall, exclaiming over the jewels and statues, without a hint of fright in her eyes.
The Cowardly Lion slinks after them, belly low to the ground.
How cruel it seems that none of them will get their wish.
What would I wish for?
What would I tell Glinda if she were sitting beside me, the fabric of her gown pooling around her knees?
I’d tell her, I think, that I wish everyone had a jeweler’s loupe.
I wish that everyone would try to see things as they really are.
I wish that everyone would understand that glamour is often deceit.
I wish that everyone would realize that when you know a flaw is there, you can figure out how to work with it, how to cut around it, how to make the gem glow despite the cracks. Everyone should know how to make the most beautiful objects they can out of things that aren’t perfect.
Because nothing is perfect.
Eight anterooms branch off of the Wizard’s audience chamber. We meet in the one Flashgleam described. Toda
y she’s more suitably attired, wearing a high-waisted gown with a narrow skirt draped in tiers. Her head is bare except for a single peacock feather pinned over one ear.
She’s deep in conversation with the other conspirators. There are perhaps half a dozen; it’s difficult for me to distinguish one from the next, as they are all cloaked and in the shadows.
I stand quietly aside until Flashgleam notices my presence. She claps me familiarly on the shoulder. She means to compliment, I think, but her touch is uncomfortable.
From within her cloak, she withdraws an enormous emerald that’s been carved into a spike. The wickedly sharp tip glints even in this dark room. She offers it, blunt end first.
“Symbols,” she says, “It’s all about symbols. The City itself is purging him. The emeralds themselves are rising up.”
The spike is cool in my palm. A real emerald would be too fragile to wield as a weapon—this one must be enchanted. It must be a Lurline emerald, purloined from Ozma’s treasury. To think that anyone could steal such an enormous jewel is startling, but if anyone can, it’s Lady Sparkle.
“You’re the perfect one to do this.” Her voice is soft and charismatic and urgent. “The avatar of emerald.”
Perhaps it’s the magic of the emerald in my palm that blunts my tongue. “And this way no one noble has to dirty their hands.”
“No, of course that’s not why,” she assures me rapidly. Despite her shocked tone, we both know she’s lying.
I wish I had my jeweler’s loupe today, but all I have are my eyes. Lady Sparkle’s skin is smooth. Her lips are beautifully rounded. There’s not a blemish on her cheek, not a discoloration on her costume, not a barbule out of place in the peacock feather behind her ear.
At normal magnification she’s flawless.
Jewelers are trained to cut gems, not break them, but in training for the first, one must inevitably learn the second.
A chisel, misplaced, will transform a jewel that was once worth Ozma’s ransom into something worthless and fractured.
You can crack a gem in two. You can shatter it. You can do many things that a jeweler ought not to.
A jeweler understands the vulnerability of stone.
The other conspirators rush around at whatever business Flashgleam has assigned them. They pay me no attention.
I recognize one of them now that she’s thrown off her cloak. It’s Glinda, wearing a white robe with a starched collar. She stands at the entrance to the audience chamber, holding back the velvet curtain that separates us from where the Wizard is receiving Dorothy and her fellows. She only holds it open a fraction, but it still seems a silly risk to me.
Not, apparently, to Flashgleam, who moves to join her. She peers over Glinda’s shoulder and gestures to me.
A risk it may be, but I might as well. If the Wizard finds us now, it will make little difference whether I’m at the forefront or standing back.
“There it is,” Flashgleam whispers to me, pointing. “The throne with the screen on it. Do you see?”
“He’s a clever old bastard,” Glinda says. Surprisingly, despite her harsh words, her voice is as honeydew as ever.
“Shh,” says Flashgleam.
She points again, this time indicating the contestants who are entering the chamber. The Tin Man stands at the forefront, axe in hand, protecting the other three.
Lights flash through the audience chamber. Flashgleam points to the spots on the ceiling where concealed bulbs are shining down magenta and cerulean.
Suddenly the throne seems to ignite. A Ball of Fire rages without consuming anything. In a shower of sparks, it disappears and becomes a lovely Lady and then a snarling Beast. Finally it settles in the form of an enormous Head with blood-hued skin and faceted eyes.
“What do you want of the Wizard?” it booms.
Timorously each contestant states his or her wish.
The Head answers, “I will grant your favors.”
The contestants rejoice. The Head interrupts.
His roar cuts into their celebration. “If you meet my condition!”
They fall silent.
“You must kill the Wicked Witch of the West!”
Dorothy stammers. Glinda shakes her head. “Clever old bastard,” she repeats, “Taking advantage of the show. He’s given them his own challenge.”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Flashgleam answers.
Glinda drops the curtain. It sways back into place. She departs the anteroom on her own mission.
The conspirators’ voices rise as they enter the final throes of their plans.
Flashgleam’s fingertips brush mine. “We’re almost ready. Don’t worry about anything. He’ll be incapacitated. He won’t be able to hurt you.”
I look toward the curtain.
“What are you going to do about Dorothy?” I ask.
Flashgleam blinks. Her brow draws down. “What do you mean?”
“Dorothy. How are you going to get her home?”
“That’s not what we should be worried about now.”
I push past her and tear the curtain aside. The contestants in the audience chamber don’t notice the noise. The Tin Man looks poised to attack the throne. The Lion’s low growl fills the room.
Dorothy sniffles into her apron. The Scarecrow wraps his arms around her shoulders, and she turns into the embrace. Tears leave glistening marks on her cheeks. I lose my breath.
Even the most jaded Citizen of Oz feels tenderly toward a child who has lost her home.
I round on Flashgleam. Angrily I repeat, “What are you going to do for Dorothy?”
She’s still staring at me as if my words make no sense. She gives some calculated, reassuring answer, but I don’t even hear her. The spike is cold in my hand. Lurline emerald.
All my life I’ve been the one who held the loupe to my eye, who strove to see beyond the superficial. All my life I’ve been the one who looked for imperfections.
All my life I’ve been a fool. All my life I’ve looked for the flaws in what stands before me, not for the flaws in my own thoughts.
It’s foolish to hope for a ruler who will be benevolent and just. Ozma XVI, the Wizard, Lady Flashgleam Sparkle—they’re all the same. No monarch is ever going to care more about the people than they do about themselves.
I rush forward. Lady Sparkle exclaims, “They’re not ready yet!”
I push past her. Everyone looks up as I enter the audience chamber. Even the Wizard’s giant avatar regards me with surprise clouding his faceted eyes.
Lurline emerald can break through a man’s sternum. It can break through anything.
The Emerald City is named for the emerald from which it was carved. It’s held together by magic that keeps it from shattering, but the magic in a Lurline emerald is stronger than any other enchantment.
I pass the Wizard’s hidden niche without a glance. Nearby, a place in the wall shines with a translucence I’ve learned indicates a weak point in the rock.
I’m a jeweler. I know the vulnerability of stone.
There’s a horrible noise as I drive the spike into the wall. A crack appears. Slowly it branches toward the floor, casting its roots into the ground. The tower shudders.
Lady Flashgleam rushes toward me, but she stops when she sees the fracture. She staggers backward. For once, even her seemingly perfect lips are stunned into silence.
The magic will die slowly. There will be plenty of time for everyone to get out.
But the Palace will splinter. The Palace will fall.
Its collapse will resonate throughout the Emerald City, of course. The City is all built from one piece. One can’t extricate the Palace from the City without consequence, just as one can’t depose a ruler without pain.
But I know this City. The highest spire is the weakest. The rest may tremble, but it won’t collapse.
We won’t collapse.
I push between the Tin Man and the Scarecrow. They’ve intuited that I’m on their side. They let me pass.
I
take Dorothy’s hand and lead her and her friends out of the audience chamber and down into the City. I don’t know if I can grant her wish. I don’t know if I can grant any of them their wishes. It’s a flawed world we live in, and not everyone can get what he or she wants. But at least I won’t forget her. At least I won’t cast her aside while I search for power.
Even the most jaded Emerald Citizen can feel for a child who’s lost her home.
A TORNADO OF DOROTHYS
BY KAT HOWARD
When a path has been set, it is very hard not to take it. That difficulty increases when the path is one that has been made just for your feet.
Or at least made for the shoes your feet are wearing.
Everything changes after a storm.
Kansas was gray. The fields were gray and the dirt was gray. The sun, which was not gray but was merciless, faded everything that might once have had color into one flat tone. Even the people of Kansas were gray: Aunt Em, the harsh, unbending gray of steel, and Uncle Henry, the thin pale gray of the shadow that stood behind her. The only thing that was not gray was Dorothy’s small dog, Toto, whose comforting fur was a dark, unfaded black.
The tornado was gray, too, at least until Dorothy was inside it. Then the clouds were striated purple and the light was an acid green. Dorothy looked out the window as the house spun in the center of the tornado, her hands toying with the ends of Toto’s shiny black fur.
Dorothy did not notice when the spinning stopped, nor did she feel the bump when the tornado set the small house on the ground. What she did notice was the color. Even through the worn gray calico of the curtains, she had to narrow her eyes against the strength of the blue. Dorothy blinked, then looked again. She nudged the half-awake Toto from her lap, then walked to the window.
Dorothy stared at the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the clearness of the air, until her eyes burned and tears wet her cheeks. Something inside of her fell, caught, flew. Her hands made fists in her dress. “We’re home, Toto. We’re home.”