The doors were flung open and the service just starting. Was it a holiday, and he hadn’t known? Or were churches in the Emerald City always this thronged? Peering between the unstooped shoulders of gentlemen standing in the vestibule, Liir caught sight of the wide, bright room, a preacher of some sort declaiming from a plinth to a sea of faces varnished with rapture or, at any rate, close attention.
“I’m sure our Unnamed God requires of us conviction and perseverance. I’m sure our Unnamed God grants us the privilege of obedience. In the face of uncertainty, the one thing we can be sure of is the value of certainty. And the Unnamed God bestows upon us the balm of certainty.”
He’s sure of a lot, thought Liir; how consoling to stand within the sound of such confidence. And the way he rolls “our Unnamed God” off his tongue—the our might as well be my, he’s that well placed. People say “my God!” all the time, but usually they mean “oh shit.” He means something better.
Liir stood on his toes. The homilist was an affable older man, neither handsome nor plain—rather forgettable, but radiant with the effort of explaining the Unnamed God to all these devout, and devoutly interested, people. He looked a bit like an animated puppet, tufts of hair behind his ears taking a red tint from the colored windows behind him. “Let us continue this celebration of Thanksgiving for our deliverance from the Witch. Our independence from the Wizard and our relief from the Witch bring all of Oz to a new chance for greatness. Miss Grayling will lead us in Anthem Eleven: ‘One Truth, One Truth Alone.’”
He wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. The room was so very crowded, and now skirts rustled and scratched, boots scuffled, as people rose to sing. He didn’t know the anthem but the refrain was simple enough.
“One truth alone we hear:
Your secret holy plan.
With so much yet to fear,
We trust what truth we can.”
The choir sang an unintelligible verse and the chorus began again, and this time Liir tried to join in, but an usher grabbed him by the collar and sidled him backward over the threshold.
“I know what you’re after,” said the usher. “Any cash in these pockets goes into the collection plate.”
“I’m not a pickpocket,” said Liir.
“Oh? You didn’t exactly dress for the service.” The usher had a point. Compared to the pious at noisy prayer, Liir looked like a peasant. “Catch you inside again, I’ll alert the constable, who’s sitting in the back row on the ready.”
“Sorry,” said Liir. But he found he could listen from the top step almost as well, and the air was nicer outside anyway—not so clotted with perfume and incense.
At the base of the wide stairs loitered a group of urchins, the oldest at least four or five years younger than Liir. They looked up at him as if he were one of them. “You don’t go in either?” he asked them.
“Never had a chance,” said one; “Never wanted a chance,” added another.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Charity pennies when the service lets out, stupid.”
“Oh. Right. Don’t you get cold?”
“No,” said a small girl missing some front teeth. “We fights a lot to keep warm.”
“It’s a good song,” said Liir. “Can you hear it from down there?”
“Don’t know hymny-singing.”
He began to hum the melody and came down a few steps. “One truth alone we hear,” he said with bright enunciation, “your secret holy plan.”
They liked the sound of a secret holy plan. “What is it?” said the gap-toothed girl.
“It’s secret, stupid,” said the older boy.
“Shut up,” said Liir, happy to be bringing joy and religion to the masses. “Your secret holy plan…get it? Da da da something, we trust what truth we can. Now there’ll be another verse and they’ll start over. Everyone ready?”
“You’re a ragamuffin cleric,” said an older girl, but she sang when the chorus came around again, and the others chimed in with more gusto than grace until the usher came out with the constable, and they all had to scatter.
“Thanks,” said the urchin leader, “now we got a song, but we got no breakfasts. Come on, looters; we’ll go steal bread from the pigeons near the Ozma Fountains.”
“Surely there’ll be more food to go around,” said Liir. “I mean now the Wizard is deposed.”
The kids ran and laughed, as all kids can, even malnourished urchins. “What, because he’s not around to eat his own portion? We’ll see about that!”
Undaunted, Liir wandered about until he came to a small hostelry. A sign read SURGERY FOR THE SENSELESS, and beneath that hung a wooden image of scissors in the act of snipping off the heads of a bunch of daisies.
This time he knew enough not to go in the front door but to wander the alley behind till he found another entrance. A graceful young woman in a dotted purple cloak came to the door when he knocked. “I’m looking for an Arjiki girl, about sixteen, newly sprung from prison, and possibly in poor health. Would she have come here?”
“We tend the wrinklies here.”
“Well, then,” he ventured, “I’m here to offer my services.”
“We have no budget for a houseboy.”
“I don’t need funds. Just a place to sleep and something to eat from time to time. I can help take care of the senseless. I had an old Nanny who needed all kinds of assistance, and I know how. I don’t mind.”
“When we’re through with them, they don’t need much help,” said the woman. “They don’t care so much what goes right or wrong for them anymore, and that’s a blessing, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so. I’m merely looking to be of service,” he explained. My life started today, he wanted to add, but she looked too cross to take it all in.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the solicitor sent you to spy on us,” she replied. “We doctor the patients, not their last wills and testaments. We’ve been cleared of suspicion any number of times. Why are you tormenting us? Isn’t there supposed to be some relief of oppression now that the Wizardic administration has left the Palace?”
“I’m not from the Palace,” he said, affronted partly, but also impressed: could he seem that old and competent already?
“If you don’t go away I’ll set the cat on you.” She pulled down her sleeve; her left arm was raw with swellings and scabs. “Unlike some, he’s not very nice since he’s been neutered,” she said ominously. Liir had the feeling that if there was a cat in the house, it was really a Cat. He backed off.
“I couldn’t just come in and get warm?” he began, but she had shut the door.
DAYS WENT BY, and he was glad to have learned about the stale bread fed to the pigeons at the Ozma Fountains. He kept body and soul together there. Scrambling for food, he wasn’t as nimble as some of the street dodgers, but his legs were longer, so he made out all right. At night he had the benefit of the cape as a blanket, so he was warmer than some.
He asked about Nor, but the City was filled with itinerant children, and to the good burghers of Oz, tinker children were anonymous when they weren’t invisible. No one had noticed an Arjiki girl on her own, and push off, you, before we call the authorities.
He thought about Princess Nastoya, but what could he do? The famous Wizard of Oz, granter of wishes, wasn’t going to stage a comeback just so Liir could beg for help for that old She-Elephant. And there was no one else to ask.
Determined not to be cowed, Liir took to hanging around the army barracks just inside the south gate, known as Munchkin Mousehole, a reference to the diminutive stature of Munchkinlanders. The Emerald City Home Guard was better fed than the poor under the bridges, that much was obvious. After a while Liir decided that membership in the Home Guard would relieve his hunger while he tried to decide what to do next. And maybe he’d find that devoting his life to service paid dividends.
Stuffing the old cape in a sack, pressing it as compacted as he could manage, Liir joined the throng of roughhouse b
oys on the parade grounds—the boys who played gooseball with soldiers at free exercise. The lads hoped to merit the gift of a cracker or a coin or a plug of tobacco, but Liir wanted more. He bade his time and steeled his nerve.
One afternoon a sudden hailstorm blew in from the Kells. Everyone scattered for cover. Liir ducked into a narrow archway hardly large enough to protect one. The soldier already there couldn’t be more than a year or two older than Liir, and so they fell into conversation as they waited out the storm.
The soldier, proud of his stature as Petty Fife in the Guard’s musical corps, told Liir where and how to apply, and what to say that would amuse the conscripting officers. “Don’t tell them you don’t know who your parents are,” he advised. “The officers are a high-strung bunch. They think that all the orphans who apply are really sent there by their parents, infiltrating the Guard for an eventual insurrection. If you’re really an orphan, lie. Tell them your folks can’t keep from screwing and they just had their twelfth baby, and you were kicked out of the family sty. That they’d understand; they’re screw-starved here, a lot of them.”
In time, Liir followed the advice, and learned it was sound. Though eight other gaunt-cheeked boys presented themselves in the same audience, only Liir answered smartly enough to be signed up. He was given a number, a cot, a cabin, a chit for meals, a key, a position title—Second Scrub—and a job, doing just that: potatoes in the commissary kitchen, morning, noon, and evening. The Home Guard ate little but potatoes, it seemed.
Still, there he was! Here he was! It seemed too good to be true. A smart uniform—someone else’s before it was his, for a few old stains hadn’t entirely washed out, and one sleeve had been replaced with a new one cut from a cheaper weight of broadcloth—but smart just the same. It came with a cap sporting a stiff silly brim in front, and a cocky periwinkle-colored tuft up top. The outfiteer also located a pair of boots, down at the heel and splayed at the toe, but serviceable enough, for they were conveniently overlarge and could take an extra pair of socks in the toe, which kept out the cold.
Once in a while Liir caught sight of the chatty fellow who had befriended him in the archway, but that soldier was assigned to a different division. In any case, Liir was determined to maintain a comfortable anonymity, so he didn’t go chasing for friends, neither in his own division nor beyond it.
One morning in the yard, when Liir was hauling sacks of potatoes from a delivery cart, he spotted Commander Cherrystone arriving in a brougham. The man appeared weary. Liir hung back and kept silent, but he invented reasons to linger in the area. He watched as the Commander spoke with a sergeant at arms. The Commander took a cup of coffee in a china cup and reviewed a construction site marked out for a new latrine or barracks or something. He then disappeared into a foreman’s shed with a roll of schemes under his arm.
An hour or so later he emerged, a cigarette between his gloved fingers. Liir approached Commander Cherrystone and reintroduced himself, a new politeness and reserve hiding what remained of his disapproval. Cherrystone might still be helpful.
“Yes, yes,” said the Commander, distracted. Liir wasn’t even sure Cherrystone remembered him, but the commander listened politely and said he would try to find out what he could about the details of carcass removal at Southstairs. “You mustn’t hold your breath though,” he said. “I’ve a lot on my plate. There is much to be done for the defense of our city.”
“There is? But we’re not at war? I thought peace was at hand.”
“Your highborn champion, Lady Glinda, thinks all is peaches and cream. She’d like it to be. But given the uncertainty of the political situation, the economy needs stimulus, and the threat of war is a great incentive to spend. Fiscal frottage.”
Liir didn’t know what this meant. But things did seem to be happening. For weeks, and then for months, he fed potatoes to the burly soldiers who dug and hauled the earth away from the building site, and eventually began the even harder work of setting colossal foundation stones in place. Liir was glad he was a slender thing, for he was better suited to kitchen work than transporting boulders. But slowly he deduced that, despite his nothing childhood in the nowhere mountains, he wasn’t quite as obtuse as he’d imagined.
He had no reason for smugness about it, to be sure. He was a bumpkin when it came to national affairs. He’d had little schooling and less practice at rhetoric. He didn’t venture an opinion about current affairs, for he hardly knew what they were. No one bothered to circulate news broadsides in the barracks, and the banter at mealtime boasted about whores and sores. Period.
What Liir discovered, rather, was that merely by hanging around in the company of Elphaba he had picked up—something. Not power, not intuition, which she seemed to have down to her very eyelash. Not understanding. But something else—a good ear, anyway. Would he could find a way to perform a spell! That was the ultimate competence with language, a skill Elphaba had had in spades, and that she used rarely and reluctantly. What is a spell after all but a way of coaxing syllables together so persuasively that some new word is spelled…some imprecision clarified, some name Named…and some change managed.
Despite his flight on the broom, Liir was sure he had no instinct for magic. It was the broom that had managed that feat: he’d gone for the ride, nothing more. If he’d ever felt the slightest tremor of intuition or capacity, he’d have pounced on it like a cat on a rat. No, he was duller than the other kitchen lads even about basic things. He couldn’t even predict when he was going to need to use the latrine.
But he found himself rounding syllables like stones in his mouth, silently. He knew he was shy, and thought to be stupid; he was beginning to suspect, though, that he wasn’t stupid. Perhaps not even slow. Merely uneducated. But not, he hoped, uneducable.
COMMANDER CHERRYSTONE DIDN’T COME seeking out Liir to answer his question about Nor. When several more weeks had passed and there was no sign of the Commander again, and no message passed on by his aide-de-camp, Liir began to press the issue to others in the Home Guard. Cautiously he started to circulate a scrap of gossip he had invented. A pair of Horned Hogs was slain in Southstairs—because the Hogs were magic. Their carcasses were removed before they could contaminate the other inmates with sorceric powers. Could it be? The kitchen boys, hungry for tales of enchantment, took up the story as if it were gospel. Liir hoped his invention would trip a rebuttal, turning up some useful information about the actual disposition of the Hogs—and by extension, suggest Nor’s next whereabouts. But revelation was slow in coming.
The winter crashed in with icy spite. His hands turned red and chilblained from the water into which the potatoes dropped. At least he wasn’t freezing or starving to death outside; snow was felling dozens. He bade his time. He was glad he got to feed the fellows who worked at the construction. They had finished shunting boulders onto the site, but even in this cold they were required to lift and set, plumb and point. They got little relief from the cold.
The Home Guard guessed they were building yet larger barracks, as if the numbers of the force might swell sometime soon. Or perhaps warehouses for the defensive artillery supposedly under development. During a thaw, a steep roof was framed and shingled; when the snows returned, the interior was roughed in at a rapid rate. Before long a unionist cleric, his ceremonial garments hidden beneath heavy fur robes, appeared on its steps. With smoking urns and hallowed gestures he signaled the Unnamed God, and the unfinished place was consecrated as a basilica.
The basilica was more or less functional by Lurlinemas. True, the pagan cult of Lurline, the sprite said by some to have founded Oz, was out of favor; few but illiterate country folk paid obeisance to Lurline anymore. But the celebration of that old holiday was still popular. Lurlinism had been quietly absorbed into the common culture, not least because the cash tills splashed with money during the festive season.
Lurlinemas made a welcome distraction from the anxiety about leadership that seemed still to grip Oz, even though the Wizard was now gone half
a year. Holiday presents came in on all sides for everyone but Liir. He had prepared a story about his parents’ fierce devotion to unionism and their rejection of the heathen custom, but he didn’t need to lie: no one asked him about the absence of gifts by his bunk. His mates received parcels in gilt paper, silly trinkets, useful clothes, small wallets of cash scented with cloves. He remembered the time Nor had given him the tail of her gingerbread mouse, and his mouth watered, but he swallowed it down.
The basilica was large enough to hold nearly a thousand at a time, so everyone got to attend the strictly unionist service on Lurlinemas. Liir saw Commander Cherrystone in the front.
A visiting chaplain with an ungainly flapping lip pulled himself into the pulpit and intoned the beginning of a homily. The sung petition petered out into a tirade against the loose morals of the day. Most of the soldiers went instantly to sleep, propping one another up on the benches, but Liir still had had so little exposure to homiletics that he sat straight up and listened. The preacher, perhaps sensing that someone midway down the room on the left was actually paying attention, began to improve.
The minister gripped the edges of the lectern and swayed sideways. “At every stage, even in the decorous and seemly home that the army provides you here, weird rumors of magical uprisings spring up! Like weevils in the wheat, like maggots in the rump roast!” Either his raised voice or the mention of magic stirred the morning crowd awake.
In order to challenge the blasphemous apocrypha, the minister repeated some stories being told and retold about town. “Magic’s appeal is sheer pfaithism: the pleasure faith that attracts by the glitter of its surface,” he railed. “Change a fish into a farthingale? Or a feather duster? All distraction! All sleight of skin! But change a fish into a fish fillet and feed your hungry mother: now, that’s a magic we can applaud: the magic of human charity!”
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