by Lisa Fiedler
“Or”—Roquat crossed his arms over his chest—“removal from the interior of the collide-o-scope requires a potion containing one dram of the Water of Oblivion, four tail scales from Quox the Dragon, and five whiskers from the chin—no, no, I mean the mustache—of a shaggy man.”
Again, Glinda’s eyes went to the pearl, which this time had turned as black as onyx.
“Then again,” the king continued, “it’s entirely possible that the charm of the collide-o-scope can only be broken by the utterance of a Magical chant, which goes as follows: ‘Tumble, stumble, spin about; what went in must now come out.’ ”
Glinda opened her hand; the pearl was once again a lustrous white.
“Well, what is your answer?” Kaliko prompted.
“It’s quite obvious that the king’s first statement was false,” said Glinda with authority.
Roquat frowned. “That’s right. How did you know?”
“Highness, you are made of solid rock, and quite a bit of it at that. Did you honestly think I’d believe you could wiggle your hips and twirl on your tippy-toes?”
“She does make a very good point, sir,” Kaliko allowed. “Graceful you’re not.”
The king pouted and slouched in his chair.
Now Glinda bit her lip, pretending to ponder the two remaining options. “The potion you described certainly sounds like it could be effective.”
“Yes, yes, it does, doesn’t it?” said Roquat eagerly. “Nothing like a bit of Quox to break a spell, I always say.”
“But then again,” Glinda hedged, tapping her chin, “that incantation you recited was quite lovely.”
Roquat’s face paled to the color of talc.
“Which is why my guess is that your second statement is false, and the third is true.”
“She’s right!” cried Kaliko, amazed. “On all three counts!”
But as Glinda reached for the collide-o-scope, the king jerked it away. “Double or nothing!” he croaked. “The boy and the belt, for the pearl.”
Glinda shook her head.
“There must be something you’d be willing to wager!” The king’s metamorphic fingers fumbled over the gleaming gems of his new belt until he’d plucked one from its setting. “What about this?” he asked, thrusting the stone into Glinda’s hand. It was a particularly shiny one—the same glinting green as Glinda’s eyes. “If you can name this stone, I’ll let you keep the collide-o-scope!”
“I believe I’ve named enough stones already, thank you,” said Glinda tersely.
“What if I throw in Kaliko?”
The steward gasped, looking utterly affronted. “Perhaps, my liege, it’s time you considered giving up gambling.”
“My ‘sediments’ exactly,” Glinda said under her breath, and handed the green stone back to the king.
To her surprise, Roquat waved it away. “Consider it a parting gift,” he mumbled. “It is the answer, after all.”
“The answer to what?”
“To all the questions you have not asked yet,” Roquat replied cagily.
Glinda eyed the twinkling gem, then cast a curious glance at Kaliko, who seemed to approve.
“Thank you,” she said, slipping the stone into her pocket along with the pearl, then motioning to the collide-o-scope. “King Roquat, would you care to do the honors?”
“No,” he huffed, slumping against the back of his gilt throne. “You go ahead.”
Glinda spoke loudly, aiming her words at the collide-o-scope. “Tumble, stumble, spin about; what went in must now come out.”
In the next instant, Ben was standing beside her. He looked mussed, and more than a bit dizzy, but on the whole, he seemed unharmed.
“Thank you again, Your Undergroundliness,” said Glinda. “Now, if you could just tell me the way back to the upstairs land, I would very much appreciate it.”
“You!” Roquat boomed, so loudly that the torches trembled in their brackets. “You are always asking for directions! I am quite tired of it. I thought the purpose of a quest was for the quester to find her own way!” From thin air the king pulled out a little pipe, which he lit by producing a red-hot coal from his pocket and tamping it into the bowl. Then he took a deep draw and blew out a long ribbon of white smoke. The smoke floated away from the throne to twist between Glinda and Ben.
Taking another pull from his pipe, he exhaled again, this time expelling a giant curlicue cloud of smoke that filled the cave. When it cleared, Glinda and Ben found themselves standing in the torch-lit cave with no one but the chief steward. The marble floors, the impressive throne, and the troublemaking king were gone.
“What a scalawag!” said Ben. “He’s left us stranded.”
“Not true,” said Kaliko, still clutching his polishing cloth. His stony eyes looked sad. “My liege is complicated, to be sure, and I fear one day he will become truly troublesome. He bears watching by the forces of Goodness. But for now he is naught but a roguish trickster, and there is decency in him still.”
“I don’t see it,” Ben muttered.
“Don’t you?” Kaliko motioned to the long strand of smoke still hovering between Glinda and Ben. “He’s left you a most excellent hint as to how to find your way home.”
Only then did Glinda realize that the twisting ribbon of smoke from the king’s pipe looked very much like a length of rope. She handed the formerly lead shield to Ben and slid the coiled rope from her shoulder. Then she aimed one end toward the ceiling of the cave and said, “Climbable!”
“Climbable?” Ben echoed. “That’s the spell?”
“Do you want poetry, or do you want a way out of here?” Glinda replied with a grin, tossing the rope into the air.
Sure enough, it did not fall back to the ground; rather, it began to grow, wriggling upward just like the slender wisp of smoke, until the end of it vanished into the high shadows. She gave it a yank and was pleased to find it secure.
“Amazing,” said Ben. “But do we have any way of knowing where it will take us?”
Glinda turned curious eyes to Kaliko.
“As I told you back at the lagoon, we are directly beneath the Witch of the North’s castle.”
“You mean to say,” said Ben, “that we might just find ourselves crawling up through the floor of Marada’s throne room?”
Kaliko shrugged. “Depending on your aim, and of course, the Magic, that is entirely possible.”
“I doubt the rope would deposit us into danger,” Glinda reasoned. “And besides, something tells me that when we break through into Gillikin, someone will be there to welcome us.”
“And who will that be exactly?” asked Ben. “An army of yakityaks? The Warrior Witch herself?”
Glinda grinned. “Locasta!”
“But the battle at the academy . . . we don’t even know if Locasta is—”
“She’s fine,” Glinda assured him. “I’m sure of it.”
“And what makes you think she’s found her way to Gillikin?”
“Because,” said Glinda, “that’s home.”
“Home,” said Ben with a wistful sigh. “There’s no place like it, is there?”
“No, there isn’t,” Kaliko agreed cheerfully. “Good luck, up-stairs girl. I hope those chatty pebbles will soon bring us news of your success.”
“I hope so too.” And with that, Glinda began to climb the Magic Rope.
30
AS GOOD AS HEALED
As Locasta’s brother approached, pieces of the purple road rose and retreated under his feet in a haphazard fashion. His humming, too, was unpredictable—high, then low, in and out of key. His eyes were anxious, snapping and sparkling as though he were trying to decide whether to be thrilled or terrified. But he sallied forth toward the three guards on the bridge.
Thruff of Gillikin, it seemed, was on a mission.
Locasta’s first thought was to throw herself between her brother and those burly soldiers.
But Shade held her back.
When Thruff’s bare feet hit
the bridge, all three of the soldiers drew their weapons. This was the boy who had embarrassed their comrade by stealing his dagger at the Levying; they were not inclined to trust him. But his voice was commanding, even as threads of pain caused by the burn on his chest ran through his words.
“I have seen the fugitive Locasta Norr!” he announced.
Locasta felt as if she’d been kicked as Thruff’s eyes slid sidelong and she understood that he could see her on the Road of Red Cobble. He knew she was there, mere yards away from where he stood.
“Where is she?” the stockiest of the guards demanded.
“She was just now running along the shantytown lane,” Thruff informed him. “And the enemy Sorceress Glinda was with her. The honor of capturing them can go to you, if you hurry.”
Locasta grinned. “He’s such a liar!” she whispered to Shade.
“I think you mean ‘hero,’ ” Shade whispered back.
One of the guards leaped astride his buffalope, which reared up, snorting; its front hooves came down so close to Thruff’s bare toes that Locasta cried out. The guards, of course, could not hear her.
“We shall storm the village,” the soldier announced from the saddle. “Tear it to pieces until someone gives them up.”
“No!” said Thruff quickly. “If you waste time pummeling miners, you will never catch her.”
“He’s protecting your neighbors,” Shade noted with admiration.
Locasta nodded, then gasped when the stocky soldier pressed the tip of his dagger to Thruff’s throat.
“You would tell us how to do our jobs?” he seethed. “We don’t take orders from children.”
“Suit yourself,” Thruff replied sharply. “But my sister is nothing if not fast. Give chase now, or lose her forever.”
“What about the Witch?” asked the third guard, looking over his shoulder through the portcullis gate as he mounted his yakity steed.
“I will go and find her in the castle and tell her you have gone to seize my sister and the redheaded menace.” Thruff promised this with such sincerity that Locasta almost believed him.
“But you must go now,” he went on. “They are probably halfway to the Forest of Gugu by now. Summon someone to open this gate for me and then be off. Marada will most certainly reward you for taking such swift action!”
“She will indeed,” the stocky guard agreed, climbing into the saddle of his yak and sneering down at Thruff. “But we are not about to help you share in that glory.”
“Filthy little scamp,” the second soldier spat. “Find your own way in.”
“H’yah!” growled the third rider, spurring his yak.
The three beasts galloped across the bridge. To avoid being crushed, Thruff scurried out of their path and fell into the moat with a splash.
Locasta rolled her eyes, then followed the red road to where her brother was crawling out of the water and offered him her hand. Thruff reached up to accept it, and when his palm met hers, she felt him transfer something into it, a round metal object. Locasta’s heart thudded, for she knew without looking exactly what it was: their father’s compass.
With a firm tug she pulled her brother out of the drink, and as he stood there dripping, Locasta stared at the golden prize in her grasp, dented and scraped, but more precious than she could say. Not only because it contained the mighty Lurl Fairy, Terra; not only because it had belonged to her father. But because, despite his errant ways, her brother had taken the great risk of retrieving it.
The words of the verse inscribed on the parchment came back to her, and she recited them aloud: “Errant souls can soon return to those who yearn and there shall learn to welcome that which surpasses hurt . . . all wounds are as good as healed.”
And as the words echoed into the night, Thruff’s expression turned to one of disbelief. His hands went to his charred shirt as the scorch mark and the burn beneath it disappeared. His wound had healed.
“Healing Magic,” whispered Shade.
“I’ve never been much for poetry,” said Thruff. “What does that all mean?”
“You were an errant soul and I yearned for nothing more than to return you to the side of Truth,” Locasta explained, smiling. “Now that I’ve forgiven you, your wound has healed. All we have to do is open the compass, release Terra, and send her storming into the keep to vanquish Marada.”
Locasta held the compass steady. Her fingers went to the lid, and slowly, purposefully, she lifted the hinged cover.
“Nothing’s happening,” said Thruff.
“I can see that,” Locasta snapped, giving the compass a good shake. When Terra still did not emerge, she turned it upside down and smacked the bottom with her palm.
“Locasta,” said Shade, biting back a rare smile. “I don’t think pounding is going to help. The Lurl Fairy isn’t stuck in there, like the last drop of molasses in a jug.”
“Well, if she’s not stuck, what other explanation can there be? Terra should be as eager to come out as Ember was. The amethysts said, ‘Terra, compass, as healed.’ Well, I’ve healed Thruff’s burn. What else could that mean?”
“Maybe you’ve misinterpreted something,” said Shade. “In the first version of this poem, the word ‘independent’ was broken into three words, spelled differently to mean something else.”
Locasta considered this. “As healed,” she muttered. “As he led? Ashe aled?” Both options were nonsense. Frowning she tried again. “A . . . shealed?”
Thruff was suddenly wiggling his wet toes in the mud of the moat bank. “Do you feel that?” he asked, panicked.
The ground beneath their feet was beginning to tremble; Locasta could feel it through the worn soles of her old mining boots.
“A lurlquake,” Thruff rasped.
But even as he spoke the words, the trembling ceased and the ground parted gently to reveal the end of a rope rising up from it.
A rope to which clung their two missing friends.
And one of them was holding a shield.
* * *
In the moonlight that shone on the grounds of Marada’s castle, four friends celebrated this most unexpected reunion.
“I feared the monkeys had won,” Glinda gushed, squeezing Locasta so tightly that the purple-haired girl had trouble catching her breath.
“They did win,” Locasta told her as she slid the compass safely into her pocket. “But that’s a long story. And how about you? Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Much more,” said Glinda as her wary gaze went to Thruff, then back to his sister.
“You can trust him,” Locasta assured her. “He’s with us now.” In a flurry of explanation, she recounted what she had learned from the amethyst stones and the altered poem. Taking the shield from Ben, she quickly examined it, and smiled when she noticed the round indentation in the center. It was the perfect size to accommodate her father’s compass, just as there had been a place for Tilda’s red beryl stone in the handle of Glinda’s sword. “To release the Elemental Fairy Terra, we must unite the compass and the shield. I’m sure of it.”
“Astonishing,” Ben remarked. “You’d think I’d be done with being astonished by now, but there it is.”
“We have to get into the castle,” said Thruff, eyeing the abandoned bridge and the heavy portcullis. “Before the next watch arrives and discovers their fellow guards have fled. They’re bound to send up an alarm.”
“How?” Shade flipped her cape in the direction of the portcullis and looked grim. “Even I would have difficulty sneaking in there.”
But Glinda did not need to contemplate. “This is Locasta’s quest,” she said with complete conviction. “Her Witchcraft will open the gate.”
So Locasta handed the shield to Glinda, positioned herself in the center of the stone bridge, and in the pale light of the moon, began to dance. Her feet moved like skipping stones flitting across a quiet lake; her arms swayed like branches in a breeze.
And slowly . . . slowly . . . the portcullis began to l
ift.
Glinda thought it looked as if the castle were a giant fanged creature opening its mouth to devour them. Fortunately, Marada kept her machinery well-oiled, and the creaking was minimal. When the pointed bottoms of the bars were high enough to duck under, Locasta ceased her dance and they all tumbled under it into the zwinger, where countless statues—formerly innocent Gillikins—loomed like stone ghosts. Many of them, who were miners by Marada’s decree, had been cursed into stone while still toting the tools of their trade—pickaxes, sledgehammers, dolabras, oil lamps. . . .
“Where will we find the Witch?” asked Glinda, rolling to her feet on the wide grassy swath, facing the outer massive wall of the inner bailey.
Thruff pointed to the towering keep beyond the wall. A deep archway—unguarded—would bring them to the inner ward. But who knew what they would find on the other side? “Locasta, make sure you have the compass handy,” Glinda advised. “And I will be ready with the shield.”
But Locasta didn’t seem to hear. She was heading in the opposite direction, making her way through the maze of statuary toward a grouping that had caught her eye. The others exchanged worried glances and hurried to catch up.
“Locasta,” Glinda called, “what are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Locasta retorted, her words heavy with sarcasm. “I’m visiting my family.” She had stopped at the figure of a man, frozen in stone on his knees. Above him, in a tight huddle, were the shapes of five girls of varying ages and a woman. Thruff sidled up slowly, looking sick and ashamed, but to his credit, he did not back away. And Locasta, to hers, did not utter a word of blame. Instead they stood together, side by side, staring at the seven faces, so very like their own.
“This is what Marada does to those who displease her,” Locasta explained to Glinda and Ben. “I’ve heard that the Petrifaction is unspeakably painful, for the heart hardens first, and the eyes last—so the Witch’s enemies can see themselves change over to stone. It is believed to be the most agonizing punishment in Gillikin.” Here she flashed a wry smile. “Second only to actually being a Gillikin, that is.”