The Emerald Burrito of Oz

by Skipp, John; Levinthal, Marc

  "No," she said, and her voice was remarkably clear. Not loud, not forceful, but intimate. As if she were speaking to each of us individually, from roughly a foot away.

  "No," she continued. "We are all not going to die. In fact, most of us are going to be just fine. These events—disturbing as they may be—are much better than you might think.

  "And though several of us will die today—yes, I'm afraid that's true... "

  And a terrible sorrow passed through the crowd, in waves I could literally feel.

  "...today, above all, will be a Festival of Fun! And I hope you all will j oin me in making this the most fun we have ever had while confronting total fear!"

  I wasn't sure how to react to this. I looked at Gene, whose eyes were huge.

  "What?" said Gene. I didn't know how to answer.

  "This is way fucked up," was all Ralph had to say.

  So I was not alone in being thoroughly stunned when the crowd began to applaud this, wildly. I looked all about the courtyard, from thither to yon, and saw 98% more smiles and clapping hands than anything else. Short of the moaning Flutterbudgets—who thank god I could not see—support for this feel-good policy seemed pretty damn close to unanimous.

  Ozma seemed thrilled but unsurprised by the Ozian response. They were her people, after all, and they loved her all to bits. If she'd suggested that they all cram high explosives up their asses, it's possible that her popularity might have dipped just a smidgen. But one wonders how much. Particularly in light of how scary that fucking cloud was.

  At that moment, Ozma pointed upward—not toward the cloud, but toward the summit of the palace—and in that moment, I became aware of a light I am quite certain I had never seen before. (I had felt it. Yes. And always known it was there. But I had never felt it register on my retina in quite that way.)

  Before the U.S. government destroyed his work and left him to die in prison, the great scientist and weirdo Wilhelm Reich used to talk about "orgone energy." It was, essentially, life energy, and he noted that we released an enormous amount of it during the sexual act. So he had these pyramid-like devices called orgone generators, which were designed to harness this astonishingly powerful natural resource.

  The problem, of course, was that the energy was free, once you had the machinery in place. In theory, it could not only power your toaster, but rejuvenate your body and liberate your soul. All you had to do was fuck a lot, with great intensity, inside his ultra-groovy little pyramid thingee.

  But this was America in the 1950's, when both sex and power sported gray flannel suits. And Reich was a raging anarchic libertine: totally anti-corporate, and anti-authoritarian.

  Whether orgone generators ever actually worked or not, the Powers-That-Be were disturbed enough by the prospect to shut him down, burn all his papers, and obliterate his machinery.

  This happened in '56, I believe. By May of '57, he was dead. Just another casualty of the global clampdown, and another black hole bored into our secret history.

  I mention this only because the radiance from above reminded me of nothing so much as orgone energy: a funky Immanance, a power from within, manifesting as an invisible light so strong that the naked eye had no choice but to receive it.

  And it was emanating from the tower at the top of the Palace. More specifically, it was emanating from Glinda.

  The next part of Ozma's speech was devoted to Glinda: how she was holed up in the tower now, whipping up some serious magick. How Glinda needed us to trust in her now, and to send her our support. How her magick was strong enough to even the odds, but only if we fell into harmony with her.

  Only if we let our subtle soul-harmonics feed into the groove she was trying to lay down.

  Of course, Ozma didn't put it that way. Her language was a lot less esoteric.

  "And so," she simply said, "this is all I ask. That you look within yourself, and find the best way to make today as amazing as you possibly can.

  "I can't possibly know what you might come up with. And I don't even need to. Because I know how you are. But if you will please give a minute to thought, you will sense a direction, and that is good enough for me."

  What followed was a deep, profound—which is to say enormous—silence.

  I must say, it was the biggest silence I have ever heard.

  (Once—in New York, at St. Patrick's Cathedral—I heard the echo of a silence as deep as this. I was alone, in a church that was designed for the effect. But there were thousands of us here, in an open-air courtyard; and I am not exaggerating when I say that the subsonic vibe in St. Patrick's was like the ghost of a dwarf by comparison.)

  Even the Flutterbudgets were miraculously mute.

  I closed my eyes, took a very deep breath, tried to make my mind clear as a rippling spring. As the psychic debris came drifting up, I let it catch on the rocks, focused on the flowing water. The words surrender, Dorothy came floating by. I let them pass, tried not to think about her. Her image fluttered in my head for a moment, and I wondered where she was.

  Then I saw myself killing, saw blood striking my face, and the image so alarmed me that I wanted to drench myself in the water, cleanse my spirit, wash the blood away. Would Dorothy kill? Would she join me on the front lines? Was she above that sort of thing? Was I debased from going there?

  I watched the bodies of those I'd killed begin to pile up on the rocks, and the sight was sickening. Blood sullied the water, tinted it so red I could no longer see the bottom. The bodies jostled against one another: damming the flow, thinning the tide. I squinched my eyes tighter, flexed the muscles in my head, as if by sheer exertion I could wipe away the blight.

  And then I saw beautific Ozma, absorbed in a black lightning blast. Saw her eyeballs explode, her hair catch fire, her exquisite features collapse in roiling black. I saw Scarecrow ablaze. Careening. Flailing.

  I watched the Emerald City flare, from green to black.

  As the light went out...

  ...and enough was enough. I shook my head. I tried to dream of clear water, caught a glimpse and focused upon it: batting the doom-shards aside, growing new rocks to catch them.

  Drawing the water inside.

  There was light sparkling there, both on the surface and within. There were pebbles—very small, and unmoving—at the bottom. I tried to count, but the task was absurd. So many pebbles inside me.

  As the water flowed on.

  And I thought about everyone caught in the flow, every one of the thousands that surrounded me now. And beyond them, the millions and billions and more. Every leaf of every tree. Every bug on every leaf. Every spore caught in the breeze, out to the very ends of Oz. And then beyond. And then beyond.

  And then my mind spiralled back to the dark centered space behind my eyelids. I took a deep breath. I took another deep breath. I could feel my flesh tingle in the palms of my hands, the crooks of my elbows, the muscles of my chest. I could feel the spark of energy burn in my left foot, profound in the web of flesh between my big toe and the one beside it. I could feel heat coursing up my spine.

  I plunged deep into the water. It plunged deep into me. It was water, fire, wind, earth, spirit, thought. All burning hot. But it was not pain that I was feeling. Or if it was, the pain was good. It was clear and light and utterly revealing. It was deep sensation: my body, revealing itself to me.

  I wanted to open my eyes, but I didn't. It was hard to stay seized by this moment, but I did. My mind, shutting down at last, went from gabbling and projecting to simply listening.

  And as for what it told me, there are no words.

  I'm not sure how long I hung there, but I'd guess it wasn't long; because when my eyes finally opened, everyone else seemed to be blinking their way back, too. I looked around, met thoughtful gazes, including those of Ralph and Gene.

  I glanced back at Enchantra; and, at last, our eyes met.

  Her eyes, like Ralph's, looked haunted.

  But also remarkably clear.

  Then I looked back up at
Ozma, who smiled down on us from above. She was swaying slightly, her eyes still closed, as if she were grooving out on our collective vibe.

  Then she opened her eyes and spoke.

  "Those of you who were called directly, please come and speak with me inside. As for the rest of you, I will be out and around, throughout the festivities. Please feel free to come up and speak with me at any time.

  "And now, my friends: I love you all!

  "Enjoy!"

  Henry Darger was one of the great "outsider' artists of the last century—although during his lifetime he was just a janitor who went home at night to an elaborate secret fantasy world that played itself out on thousands of collage-cartoon tableaus. Most of his work concerned the exploits of the Vivian Girls—child warriors whose placid expressions never changed even while being subject to frequent horrific turmoils and tribulations—boilings in oil, mass smotherings, you name it.

  I couldn't help but thinking at that moment that he had gotten at least some of his ideas from down the Ozian grapevine—I felt like I was about to descend into a Vivian Girl Tableau myself—I even looked around, expecting to maybe see some of them. Why not?

  Ozma had just dumped the biggest load of bullshit I had heard since I'd gotten here. I'm all for the power of positive thinking, but this was ridiculous. Everyone was just supposed to think happy thoughts, and that's it? That's the answer?

  Alright, it's true that for a moment, when I saw Glinda surrounded by a shimmering halo of light, I was touched by something like a glimmer of hope, but jeez, the odds weren't looking too good by any stretch of the imagination. Then again, maybe that's my whole problem—the stretch of my imagination.

  After the speech, Tik-Tok hustled us back down the same long hallway, the Scarecrow and the Lion tagging along behind, back down the opposite direction from where we'd started. Eventually, it widened out into an even bigger hallway with weird walls covered with something like solid emerald spidersilk—scintillating, translucent and hard-looking, something that might have taken thousands of years to drip there like limestone. The ceiling was several stories high, with balconies and walkways intersecting and crossing overhead. Functionaries, servants and dignitaries bustled about their business up there, appearing and disappearing into the vastness of the palace, their voices echoing out over our heads, individual words lost in reverb.

  The richness of the furnishings that lined this corridor was truly astounding—little knickknacks to giant sculpture, glass megaliths and tiny end-tables, sometimes a bookshelf and a sofa in the middle of nowhere. I didn't understand it—did anyone come here and hang out, like the middle of this corridor was a gigantic living room? Or was it just all decoration?

  After a while we came to a pair of huge doors, at what looked like the end of the line. They opened all of a sudden, and we entered into another fantastically huge room, roughly the size of a football stadium.

  This was Ozma's throne room.

  Ozma had gotten there before us. A select few were with her, lounging on a pile of huge pillows about thirty feet from the throne: a sultry, brunette woman who Aurora, in hushed tones, identified as Dorothy, and some others I hadn't met yet.

  The tiger I'd seen the other night was already there. The Lion sauntered up to the tiger, exchanged nods, and laid down about ten feet away from it.

  There was a dark woman, I hesitate to say black, because she didn't look Negroid, just dark. She looked me over with a predatory gaze, and when she spotted Aurora found it immediately necessary to turn around to speak to a big fat bug guy, who looked like "Apocalypse"—era Brando as The Fly.

  I felt a pressure against my leather pant-leg, and looked down to see the most ancient, rheumy-eyed, graying terrier I'd ever seen sniffing me. I reached down to pet it, and it growled at me until I drew my hand away, then it placidly continued to sniff.

  "Toto! Knock it off!" Dorothy shot the dog a harsh look, and I guess the dog took the hint, because it hobbled over to Dorothy and collapsed at her side, eying me with a look that said, "I'm not done yet, pal."

  A pair of liveried servants were coming around with refreshments, some sort of iced beverage in tall glasses. I took one from the proffered tray and sipped. It was a lot like lemonade with ginger in it.

  Ozma was playing with a little doll, one that reminded me uncomfortably of the China People, as if nothing very pressing was on her mind—just a little girl, doing little girl stuff, not the potentate of a fairy land on the verge of being burned and stomped. Just as if she'd read my mind (hell, she probably did), she handed the doll to a servant and assumed a respectable lotus position.

  "My friends," she said, looking around at all of us, "our people are now preparing to defend the Emerald City from the worst enemy it has ever known. Now, most of our citizens are peace-loving, simple people, with no desire to fight. They must, then, use their creative powers, their ingenuity, to defeat the foe in unexpected ways.

  "Those of you from Earth are well acquainted with war. Sadly, a contingent of our enemy has come from your 'world next door'. For many years I have suspected that it would come to this, that trying to harness our magic would not be enough for them."

  It took a few seconds for this to sink in. What was she telling us? That the good old U.S. of A. was backing this creep?

  I shot a quizzical look at Ralph, and his expression was enough to confirm what she was saying. What I saw was mostly embarrassment, self-loathing and confusion. Here was a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. Here was a man in crisis, a man who didn't know who to throw in with.

  "I've called you together with me," Ozma continued, "because you are all in a state of profound—what shall I say?—activity. For better or worse, you are all to be greatly changed by the events of the next few days, and your actions will irrevocably change the lives of everyone, everywhere.

  "You are all dancers, all of you, and you must be sure to dance brilliantly. When I say brilliantly, be sure that I do not mean self-consciously or cleverly, but rather, surely and passionately.

  "You may not choose to dance to my tune, and that must be as it may be..."

  Then she looked rather pointedly, I thought, at Ralph, and then quickly looked away.

  "Others may serve our cause without meaning to, but ultimately, the cause you serve will not matter. It only matters that you DO."

  I started to drift off a little. Ozma's speech was starting to sound a little like that cheesy seventies hit "Desiderata": "You are a child of the universe, and whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should" and all that. But I held my tongue. I was feeling pretty bleak, and I didn't have any better ideas.

  "Some of you believe only in that which you can see. Sometimes that is a good thing. A dreamer, a shaman, sometimes needs a guardian, someone to watch the gates while he dreams.

  She fixed me with her supernatural gaze. "Gene, I think you are one of these." She smiled sweetly. "I know what you think of what I've said today. All I can ask of you is that you be the best skeptic you can be."

  Then she addressed everyone again .

  "As the darkness falls, your light grows brighter. Every one of you will be like a beacon in the darkness to me. By your actions, I will see more completely what must be done."

  Then she closed her eyes, and smiled again, and the smile was of a variety that didn't belong on the face of a prepubescent girl. It was frightening, and I suddenly realized the depth, power and age of this creature that had been speaking to us. Not a little girl anymore, but a maybe four-hundred year old witch-woman.

  Suddenly, I heard the sound of my own voice. "Why isn't Mikio Furi here?" it asked.

  Ozma laughed, a twittering sound almost like a bird laughing. "Mikio's place is with his machines," she replied. "and I'm afraid to disturb his mentation right now. He is a rather delicate flower. That does remind me of your companion, though. What do you think It will want to do?"

  "It?"

  "Yes, It." She pointed to my backpack.


  "You mean the—"

  "Yes, your computing machine. Now that it has come to life, a great many people mean to have it. That can only mean that it possesses great power. Think about what you and It would like to do."

  I thought about it. What I would have liked to have done then was get the hell outa Dodge, take a running jump at the gate back to Kansas, but that didn't look like an option.

  I took the Enchanted Laptop out of the packback and booted it up, hoping that it would have something to tell me, but it was behaving normally. I figured the little guy was scared stiff. But then it blinked—that is, the screen went black—twice, and then it started to strobe, in lurid fluorescent colors:

  ***mikio***go***go***go******mikio***go*

  **go***go******mikio***go***go***go******mi

  kio***go***go***go******mikio***go***go***g

  o******mikio***go***go***go******mikio***go

  ***go***go******mikio***go***go***go******m

  ikio***go***go***go******mikio***go***go***

  go******mikio***go***go***go******mikio***g

  o***go***go******mikio***go***go

  I flipped the screen around so that Ozma could see it. "I think it's made up its own mind."

  I saw something then I thought I would never see—Ozma's eyes widening in astonishment for the most fleeting of moments. I don't think anyone else saw it but me, but I was sure I had. I'm not sure what it was that jolted her—the raw wonder of this vulgar piece of Earth technology, the mystery of something from somewhere invading it, or both.

  "Your Majesty? Excuse me, but—why am I here?" Everyone turned towards the dark woman, Enchantra, who was alternately attempting to not scowl and smiling towards the monarch in a truly psycho display. (That's really her name, by the way,—it sounds different in Standard Pawt'kween, but translates roughly to that, can you believe it?) She was nervous as hell, though I couldn't tell which of the maybe three hundred things that might make you nervous when the walled city you're in is about to be ripped to shreds. Maybe she was just afraid of Ozma. Maybe she had some place else to be.