Peter & Emily, The Girl From New York
Page 24
***
I opened my eyes. It was bright. So bright. Blinking, I looked around. I was sitting in the middle of a cornfield. The air was quiet and comfortable—the opposite of what I had just experienced at home.
When my eyes adjusted to the insane sunlight, the first thing I noticed was the colors. The blue sky. The white clouds. The green corn stalks. It was like a child had painted everything with the most perfect, vibrant shades as possible.
Standing on wobbly legs, I realized I wasn’t in the middle of a cornfield—I was actually in between two separate cornfields. Below me, under my feet, there was a cracked, crumbling road—similar to a cobblestone road—overrun with weeds. The mismatched, broken bricks that made up the road were a faded yellow.
I heard footsteps, running my way. They were soft, yet quick. Panicked.
I looked down the road. A man ran toward me, a thin man. Dressed in brown.
When he got closer, I saw he was wearing patched rags.
“Dorothy?” he yelled. “Dorothy, is that you?”
I squinted. “Um, no. It’s not.”
He reached me and stopped, almost falling over from running so fast.
“You’re not Dorothy. You’re not even close to Dorothy.”
He looked me over with disappointment, so I took the opportunity to look him over. He wasn’t wearing rags—he was made out of rags. Straws of hay stuck out from his wrists and hat, and also poked out from holes all over his shirt. His pants were made from sewn-together potato sacks.
When I looked at his face, I saw it was painted on. Yet his blue eyes were undeniably human.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Are you from Kansas? Did Dorothy send you?”
“Uh, no,” I said, my brow furrowed. “I’m from New York. I don’t even know who Dorothy is. What—where am I?”
He looked down and kicked at the dirt. “Darn it. I thought maybe Dorothy sent you. I thought maybe you had a message from her. That she was returning.”
“No.” I looked around. “This may be a strange question, but did a tornado come through here?”
The man’s head darted up. “A tornado? Did you say a tornado? Were you brought here by a tornado?”
“Uh, I think so.”
“Oh, joy!” The man jumped and wrapped his arms around me. They were so soft—made of hay, and only hay. “You are here to help us, you are! If you were brought here by a tornado, you must be here to help us!”
“I don’t think that I am. Look, I’m gonna take a shot in the dark, but do you know a guy named Wes, by any chance?”
“Yes! Wes must have sent you here, from New York. It’s not Kansas, but I’ll take it! Oh rapture, oh relief! Someone here to help, at last! Come on, follow me!”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me forward.
“Where are we going?” I asked, speeding up so I wasn’t simply dragged down the brick path.
“To the Emerald City, of course. Or, what’s left of it, that is. Perhaps Wes is waiting for us there. I only hope we can get by the Kingdom of the Tin Wizard first. But maybe the flying monkeys can fly us over…”
“Flying monkeys? What are you talking about? What is this?”
“This is Oz, my dear. The not-so-much-wonderful-anymore world of Oz. I know it’s probably hard to tell. But we must be very careful.” The straw man looked to the sky. “And quiet. The Tin Wizard may be listening to us right now.”
“Who?”
“The Tin Wizard. Since he lost his heart, there’s no telling what he might do if he finds us this close to his kingdom.”
The straw man suddenly stopped. He looked to me.
“But…don’t you know? Isn’t that why Wes sent you here?”
“No. He didn’t send me here. I think this was a mistake. Why do you think I’m here?”
“To save Oz. To help me, rescue my friend. To turn him back into what he once was.”
“What friend?”
He walked forward, holding my hand.
“The Tin Wizard. We must return his heart to him. He lost it, but if we can find it and get it back to him, we might save him from the witch before it’s too late. And turn him back into my friend.”
“And where is this heart?”
“We’re not sure. But we think it’s inside someone named Captain Hook.”
EMILY’S ADVENTURES WILL CONTINUE IN THE NOT-SO-MUCH-WONDERFUL-ANYMORE WORLD OF OZ
About the Author
Thomas Hayes lives in Massachusetts. He enjoys Red Sox baseball, binge watching, movies, Muppets, and any kind of vacation, anywhere.
To contact the author:
ThomasHayesBooks@gmail.com