L. Frank Baum - Oz 36

by Lucky Bucky In Oz

  “Please stop!” she cried. “Don’t go any farther. Old Trickolas Om has escaped from my picture and he won’t go back. Also; three other witches have escaped beside Old Mombi. We don’t know how to get them back. It makes me feel creepy to have Old Mombi flying around.” The rulers listened in silence as Dorothy continued: “Old Trickolas has been trying to get

  Kabumpo’s painted elephant off the wall so that he can start a revolution. But the painting won’t budge because it has all the loyalty of good old Kabumpo himself.”

  The Wizard wiped great beads of perspiration from

  his brow.

  “It is quite evident I have mixed too much magic with the paint; the matter looks serious.” He spoke reflectively, then made a sudden motion through the air with his hand.

  Instantly the crowded streets were deserted. Not a person was to be seen anywhere. Glinda, Ozma and the Wizard alone remained. They came close together and moved quickly forward, talking in low tones.

  Next to Old Mombi, Trickolas Om had once been their greatest menace, disturbing the peace and quiet of the nation by transforming innocent people into lost keys and doorknobs, for he knew a few low tricks and was a practical joker as well.

  The Wizard knew all of these tricks and was not disturbed by them when he saw Old Trickolas sauntering along the empty street, for had not the Wizard himself whisked the people to safety? The three great magicians awaited the approach of the tricky joker.

  “Watch your P’s and Q’s,” warned the Wizard as Old Om came face to face with him.

  “Will you lend me your handkerchief?” was the trickster’s first laughing remark.

  The Wizard handed him a large one made of green

  silk.

  “Now watch this trick closely,” said Old Om. “I take it and shake it and you see the wave in it.”

  Sure enough, a great, green wave surged out of the handkerchief.

  Old Trickolas dived into the wave, expecting to escape by swimming away, but he landed on his head.

  “Harrumph!” snorted the Wizard in disgust. “What’s so funny about that? I’m afraid you were not watching your P’s and Q’s, Professor-your wave had no water in it. I’ll wager you forgot your Pints and Quarts.”

  And before the joker could regain his wicked wits, Ozma had sent him back to his place on the wall with the aid of her magic belt. She gave directions to Jack Pumpkinhead to paint strong chains around his ankles.

  “That leaves us with four witches running wild,” said Glinda, the red sorceress from whom no witch had ever escaped.

  The vacant spaces in the pictures showed just who these missing witches were. Aunt Geranium, Little

  Blue Schoola and Plush were gone. And, of course, old Mombi, too.

  Glinda continued to speak after a careful examination of the wall.

  “Schoola is a blue munchkin, causing plenty of trouble by breaking shoestrings. A silly thing to do, but there are several witches who do silly things. Aunt Geranium is invisible as long as a bird is singing. Around my castle I have so many birds that at least one and sometimes two sing all day long, so none of us ever sees her if she is about.

  “While she is invisible, however, she pops a geranium bud on a Quadling’s nose. Quite harmless, you might think, but a nuisance. I used to remove as many as fifty in a week. It was a bother, sometimes.

  “Number three witch is Plush - not so harmless nor so easy to catch if she has a broom. Today she hasn’t got one. I’ve already set up protection barriers around the city. The houses have all been notified to keep their kitchen doors locked and all brooms hidden. Chimneys are on the alert to strike all witches down.”

  As she finished speaking the great sorceress smiled at her Queen. “What next?” she asked.

  “Next, we have to catch them, don’t we?” suggested

  Ozma.

  Glinda laughed and pointed up Lemon Lane: “See

  for yourself, my dear. Old Schoola and Aunt Geranium are coming back. I knew they would.”

  “It’s no use,” cackled Old Schoola, with a glance at the shoelaces of the rulers. “Aunt Geranium gives up too. We are both here even if you can’t see her at this minute while that dratted bird keeps squawking. More than half the time when I’m with her, I’m talking to nothing at all.”

  “Come on, Girls,” said Glinda gently to the two witches. “Go back quietly to your proper places.” Meekly enough they climbed back.

  ‘Hi-ho-hum .” mused the Wizard much amused at Glinda’s simple method of catching witches.

  “It’s all in knowing how that makes it seem so simple, my dear Wizard,” smiled Glinda.

  Ozma danced a few fancy steps, exclaiming: “I just caught Plush! I placed a broom in a chimney and just before she grabbed it, I whizzed her back to her picture.”

  “You two make quick work of these witches,” chuckled the Wizard.

  With another flourish of his hand he brought back the surging crowd of people that, a few minutes before, he had caused to vanish for their own protection. City dwellers, Visitors, Animals, everyone was there.

  “I’m convinced, I did mix too much magic in that paint,” faltered the little Wizard as he scrutinized Kabumpo’s picture. For the painted elephant had eaten the painted hay from the picture for as far around him as he could reach with his trunk, leaving a great blank space on the wall. To remedy this, the Wizard readjusted the paint brushes and Ojo and Kabumpo repaired the scene. In many of the pictures the characters were talking quietly to one another. Others were quarreling. An exceptionally good portrait of Ozma waved its hand to the real Ozma as she passed

  by.

  Another unexpected situation upset the Wizard. Few events in his eventful life equalled his surprise when twenty-two important looking Painted Wizards of Oz came briskly around the corner. Each one carried a black bag of magic and each imagined that he was the very important person.

  Respectfully the crowd moved aside to let them pass. With their heads held high, they marched up to the real Wizard and stood before him, striking imposing attitudes.

  “The top of the morning to you, me and us!” the twenty-two voices announced in chorus.

  The Wizard stared, a little confused by being confronted by so many duplicates of himself. Ozma and

  Glinda smiled at the odd turn of affairs and stepped aside to let their friend manage himself.

  Fortunately not one of the painted wizards resented any other painted wizard. They had no memory of anything that had happened before they were painted. They looked so exactly alike and their voices and actions were so similar that it was impossible to tell which was the real one with any certainty.

  “Sour molasses!” mumbled the Wizard to himself, trying to figure out a plan to reduce twenty-three of him to a single one and how to get them back to their right places without borrowing Ozma’s belt. “Come along, all of us,” he called when he had made up his mind. “We will take a look at the new pictures.” And off they went.

  From then on it was not difficult to get each straying wizard to point out the picture from which he had wandered. And, simpler still, with a few kind words, to persuade him to return to his proper place, then paste him back tightly without an argument. A few persuasive words from the wise old Wizard were all that was needed to achieve harmony between them. But he was very careful to see that the painted wizards were securely fastened to the wall.

  “You managed yourself splendidly, you darling old

  Wizard,” said the little Queen as they finished the inspection with no more interruption.

  Every child, from the youngest who had helped only a little to the principal character artists, received three medals apiece, one from Ozma, another from Glinda and still another from the Wizard. Following the granting of these, everyone in the Emerald City received a present from a large assortment that Kabumpo carried on his back.

  With the inspection over, the crowd broke up. People in small groups wandered back to their homes, and Ozma, with a party of her mos
t intimate girl friends, retired to the Queen’s private apartments.

  The Wizard wandered into the royal kitchen to get a slice of pepper cheese from the royal refrigerator. He had been so busy that he had entirely forgotten to eat his lunch.

  The kitchen was empty since all the cooks and palace servants had gone out to see the pictures. With a thick slice of cheese on special green bread, he sat down at a carved crystal table to enjoy his repast in quiet and peace.

  From a far closet came a faint rattle, then through the open door, an array of brooms stepped forward, old brooms and very old broom—whisk and brush brooms-forming themselves into a row. One sturdy

  broom advanced and addressed their great sorcerer.

  “Listen, Kind Sir,” she began, giving a stiff-backed curtsy. “Could you spare the time to listen to a committee of honest working brooms?

  “We represent hard labor and we ask your help to keep witches from riding us’ to destruction. I have been hag-ridden until I am but a wreck of my former self. Look at me! I’m a pitiful sight, I know, and my usefulness as a broom has been practically destroyed.”

  “There must be something that can be done,” said the Wizard with kindness.

  The broom took a deep breath and began again: “We are never ones for asking favors from anyone but, after I was stolen from a comfortable home by old Curly Ah-Ha-Do just to be taken into a mountain wilderness and abandoned, I made up my mind I would bring the case before the authorities.

  “It took me two years to find my way home. Don’t you think, Kind Sir, that something ought to be done about it? I’m not the only one, indeed I’m not. Now, see for yourself…” she paused, then called: “Come up here, Po! Don’t be afraid. Show the gentleman your cracked back.” An old, broken broom hobbled out from the line. “See her! From being hag-ridden so much by the Thimble Witch. This witch not only

  rode her but broke her back on a Munchkin farmer’s head and then left her beside the road to perish.

  “We were all good brooms once, new, and willing to work hard. Now, when we are old and broken, we are stuck away in corners or behind dark stable doors. It’s all wrong!”

  The Wizard took a bite of cheese before he answered. Then, with a smile, he placed his hat on the floor and asked the broom if she could jump over it.

  Over she went, landing safely. Spiff! And she was a new broom. Poor old Po was the next to hop over and she, too, became a new broom. One at a time the old brooms followed, leaping the hat, and a long line of new brooms ran scampering out of the back door, happy and young again, all eager to be gone from the castle before the servants returned. Once on the street, they scattered in many directions, each hurrying to her old home, to slip into the closet, ready for duty.

  Finding himself alone, the Wizard finished his bread and cheese, then darting through the kitchen window, he sailed through the air to his high tower.

  On entering the laboratory he found the hall clock stretched out fiat on the floor. Number Nine was bending over it, trying his best to restore its life. Every spark of life seemed to have left it-not a wheel

  moved-nor could the boy get any response when he tried to restore the tick. He was so depressed by his failure to revive the clock that he did not raise his head when he heard the Wizard approaching.

  “Our good old clock is done for-completely knocked out,” was all he could say.

  “Quite impossible,” said the Wizard briefly, but his face carried an anxious frown.

  “I’ve done everything to bring him back to life; I’m afraid it’s too late. Old Mombi got him. Why should she murder an innocent old clock?” remonstrated the boy, his voice full of sobs.

  “Hoity-toity, tut-tut-tut-” urgently soothed the little man, rummaging through his pocket until he found a peppermint shaker. “It’s nothing serious. She may have shattered his hopes for a little while; that’s all it is. Peppermint ought to revive the clock. If you would only smile, my boy, that would help a lot.” As he spoke the Wizard was dusting the face of the clock with green peppermint star-dust.

  In a few seconds a slight whirring began inside the clock; the hands trembled and very faintly came the sound of the clapper touching the bell softly in an attempt to tell them the hour.

  Flustered with excitement, Number Nine lifted the

  clock to its feet and let it lean heavily against him.

  “What happened?” the boy asked eagerly.

  The clock did not answer at once; when it did, it

  said:

  “Wait until I’m wound, set and regulated. Remember that I have very sensitive works.” As the Wizard turned the crank that started the pendulum, the hands wavered for an instant at the figures nine and three; then, still a little wobbly, they jerked themselves to ten and two. The Wizard nodded his head.

  “As long as you can smile like that, old friend, you’ll never be knocked out,” he said, returning the clock’s smile. “Now I’d like to see you smile, too,” he added, turning toward Number Nine.

  “How can I smile, Sir, when I have bungled my job?”

  “You’ve not bungled as long as you can smile,” and the happy-go-lucky Wizard burst into a magical laugh, the clock struck loudly, and Number Nine couldn’t resist a broad grin.

  With the Wizard and his assistant seated on a bench, the clock told how he had been watching the whale on the screen of the tattlescope and saw him sink in the waters of Lake Quad and how the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were washed overboard with a great number of other passengers.

  “I had no time to leave the laboratory and warn you

  when I was struck in the back and thrown to the floor with such force that all my delicate wheels were jiggled loose. I did, however, have a moment to notice the figure of a witch who stared into the screen, then laughed wildly … but, after that I remember nothing.”

  “Well done,” announced the Wizard. “You’ll find yourself keeping good time in a day or two. Be a little slow about it. I’ll take care of the other matter.” He hurried over to Number Nine. “Anything else of importance?” he asked.

  “Yes. Plenty of excitement beyond the Winkie country. For the last four days I have seen this monstrous whale coming into our land. He is bringing with him a young boy who was thrown from a volcano that… ”

  “A volcano? Where?” cried the Wizard, jumping from the bench in consternation.

  “In the pink Nonentic Ocean. And there have been disturbances ever since. You can look for yourself,” said Number Nine adjusting the tattlescope for his master.

  “See if you can find my book of magic charms, while I look…” said the Wizard seating himself before the tattlescope.

  Number Nine rooted through the black bag. No book of magic charms was there; Mombi had probably taken it. The Wizard was not alarmed at the news because, by a secret method known only to himself, he had changed the charms in the stolen book so that they worked exactly the opposite way from the way they were written. For the moment, the Wizard put the loss out of his mind.

  Across the screen he saw the distant volcano come into view. There were the little bakers, mixing dough and making their pies and doughnuts. Their work was interrupted by a black figure that sailed out of the sky and settled down on the crater.

  “That’s Mombi! Ozma and Glinda must be told of this without delay! Good-bye!”

  Just as suddenly as the Wizard vanished from the laboratory he appeared before the Queen. Together they turned the pages of the royal book of records. Without a doubt, Number Nine’s report was correct in every detail.

  In the Queen’s magic picture behind the throne, they saw the same volcanic island with the little bakers shooting biscuits at Mombi’s head as they drove her farther and farther up the steep slope of the volcano. Then, with a final yell of derision, the old witch disappeared inside the smoking crater.

  There was but one thing for Ozma and her councillors to do, and they did it without wasting time.

  The Wizard with his black bag, Ozma with her magic be
lt and Glinda with her wishing cap were presently seated in a special scalawagon gliding swiftly to the distant Nonentic Ocean. The day was clear and every mountain top to be seen clearly as they sailed with the speed of the wind.

  “Seems like old times,” laughed Ozma. “It’s been a long time since we hunted witches together. I rather

  like it.”

  Even the scalawagon beamed with the spirit of adventure as Glinda pointed out the secret lands of several well-known sorcerers. Over short rivers and across pathless wastes of land they soared until they reached the pink ocean.

  “Whatever you do, be careful,” warned Ozma, as they approached the volcano in a spiral dive and dropped safely into the crater’s mouth.

  Inside the depths, the voice of old Mombi was heard giving forth muffled shrieks.

  Climbing to the top of the crater’s rim, the biscuit shooters leaned over the edge so that they might look down and see what on earth was happening.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Emerald City at Last

  LONG before the Scarecrow had his boot in shape again, the Uncles were thoroughly dry and “ready to put to sea.” Nickchopper, completely oiled in every joint, was urging Davy to take to the water in order to see that no leak was left to sink him again.

  So everyone piled aboard and Davy started to cruise lazily around the lake. With the hearty approval of Bucky, the passengers elected the Scarecrow as skip per for he was familiar with the neighborhood. The Tinman crawled around inside the cabin looking for leaks, but there were none.

  The Scarecrow stood on the deck, surrounded by a hundred admiring uncles, trying to answer all the enthusiastic questions they fired at him about the places of interest he was pointing out. So wearing was this effort upon his good nature that his brains began to sag. Between questions he took time to try to push them back into place, but the uncles, usually so considerate, failed in their excitement to notice his predicament. Finally the effort proved too exhausting and the Scarecrow was forced to turn the navigating over to Bucky.