An Introduction to Oz Before Dorothy

by Tarl Telford

  Silence as she hung in the air. And then darkness.

  * * * * *

  The City Guards, more than twenty strong, pushed forward toward the three opposing warriors--Omby-Amby their Captain, Toro Plantain their brother-in-arms, and Rala the Fighting Girl. Their swords drove point first toward the three. It was the simplest and most effective attack against an opponent. One at a time, and the conservation of heroic might sets in, and one man can defeat an army. There was not time for that. With the world ending, and their former leader holding the solution hostage, time was not an ally. Their orders were to remove, not kill. Driving the soldiers away with the points of their swords was the most effective and least violent solution.

  Omby-Amby pulled the trigger and shattered one of the guard's kneecaps. He fell down, screaming. Another pushed through the line.

  Behind the guards, Glinda observed the dreadful repercussions of the shot. "I was wrong. He pulled the trigger."

  Omby-Amby used the rifle to sweep aside two swords. He butted the rifle into another guard's nose, blinding him with the explosion of blood and pain. Beside him, Toro ripped the sword from another guard's hand and kicked him in the knee. When the soldier fell, Toro stomped on his half-clenched hand, breaking the knuckles. Rala nipped out with her slender sword and removed fingers from her opponents. Screams of agony filled the close air of the orange-lit cavern.

  In less than a minute, the number of viable city guards was reduced by half, yet none of the fallen were dead. They would neither walk nor pick up a sword for a very long time, but they were not dead.

  Behind the line, Glinda's eyes grew stormy and turned black. "We don't have time for this."

  The Witches felt the change in her magic. Kally smiled and fell in beside Glinda as she stepped forward. They pushed through the line. Kally swatted out her hands and threw Toro Plantain and Rala to the far opposite walls and pinned them there. Her telekinetic magic held them up off the ground and slowly compressed their chests, leaving them gasping for breath. Neither willingly dropped their swords. They gritted their teeth and glared at the Witch.

  Omby butted another city guard in the back of the head with his rifle. He ducked as Toro and Rala flew to either side. Red filled his vision as Glinda's wild hair captured his eye. A flash of grey metal in Glinda's hand as her arm rose up. A sound of thunder as she pulled the trigger.

  HH4: Glinda's Letters to Oz (Book Four)

  The Orphan Sorceress of Oz introduced Glinda as the headstrong ruler

  of the South. Dark Dreams in Oz challenged her ability to command,

  and Dark Wind in Oz challenged her determination as she became Protector

  of Oz. However, her crusade failed and drove the Wizard from the light

  back into the dark. In madness, the Wizard hides in exile, leaving the throne

  of Emerald City empty.

  Magic and mayhem, dreams and defiance, secrets and sacrifice,

  all define this new age in the Land of Oz.

  SHE WILL WIN HIS SOUL, IF IT TAKES A LIFETIME.

  Beyond the shadows of the Emerald City, the world continues, and Glinda

  defends the Wizard's legacy through wisdom by her rule, through courage

  by the strength of her sword, and through strength by the power of her sorcery.

  Every year she writes a letter to the Wizard, Oscar Diggs, and begs him to claim

  his rightful place. Every year she receives silence.

  Decades drop away, and generations fade into forgetfulness. The true identity

  of the Wizard is lost to all save a few, until only the legend remains. Glinda

  wages war in the Wizard's name, but bloody battlefields only bury the dead.

  The dark and silent night stretches a day into a year into a lifetime. Her hidden

  fear finds a new face as the Wizard finally opens his door...

  Glinda's Letters to Oz is an epistolary novel that provides a long view of Oz history,

  connecting the Hidden History of Oz to the classic series created by L. Frank Baum.

  * * * * *

  Glinda's Letters to Oz spans more than fifty years of time, covering events in stories

  yet to be written. For long-time fans of Oz, they will see history unfold from a distance

  as Glinda details such events as the birth of Ozma, the sudden disappearance of the crown

  princess, the arrival of Dorothy and the death of the Wicked Witches. For fans of The

  Hidden History of Oz stories, there are spoilers (although they could be considered teasers)

  for stories yet to come.

  The beginning of the Glinda Cycle of stories is 1168 Ozy / 1852 AD, or 48 BDG

  (48 years before Dorothy Gale enters Emerald City). The first letter was written

  two years later, after the events of Dark Wind in Oz (HH3).

  Story: 54,000 words

  Story and Appendix: 63,000 words

  HH4: Letter 31 (1200 Ozy/1884 AD/16 BDG)

  My Dearest Oscar,

  I am lost in the truest senses of the word. I feel like each day is a breath, a flutter of eyelids, and then the sun is rising again. The days and the nights have melted into each other like rain on wet paint. The mess that I have made is drying sticky and incomplete. You once gave me balance. It has been thirty years since you closed your door in Emerald City.

  In the time since my last letter I have been waiting for some word from you. All these years it has never come, but this year I really believed that it would. I sat on the Ruby Throne, erasing the lines from my face. You can call it vanity, and the other women here in Chronometria do, believe me. They do not see as I see. The clear eyes, the blush of the cheek, the smooth forehead is fine for the young ladies of the court, but that is not why I rest on my rubies.

  I realized this year why my mother spent so much time in the Ruby Palace. As I grow older, I fear that I am becoming her. She feared nothing, or so I thought. Then I realized that there was one thing that she did fear, and that was time. I wish I knew her story better so that I could show you what is happening inside my head. My thoughts have been of her, of me, of time, and of mortality.

  Is the Land of Oz alive? I am not talking about the land growing things, or how it supports life, but rather does the land itself grow and change and feel and need? Will the Land of Oz die? This is something that I do not want to consider, but I must. I am the appointed guardian of the land. If there is an end to Oz, then that means that there is an end to my guardianship. How do I face that? Is death a natural part of life? The answer, of course, is yes. But what about for a land? I read of civilizations rising and falling. One could say that they were born and that they faced their demise at the end of their century'd run. Even in Oz, there have been civilizations that rose and fell. The Munchkins are barely a shadow of what they were when my grandfather was a young man. I know it sounds peculiar, for in only three generations of my family, seventeen generations have passed for the rest of Oz. It is not fair, I think, sometimes, that one family can amass so much power and knowledge while the rest of Oz slumbers through their waking years to pass to their eternal rest. And now I, alone, bear the burden of continuing to watch and protect.

  My mother watched a long time through those years. Her temple was the Ruby Palace, sacred and apart from time. She watched the stars and the spheres beyond to ensure that everything was perfect.

  There are times that I have sat on my Ruby Throne and stared at the mirror across the room. Do you know what I see? I see my mother. I see her doing the exact same thing in the Ruby Palace. I see her sitting on her throne day after day, year after year, even century after century, but I can't say for certain that it was multiple centuries, because even my father only knew that she was at least one hundred and twenty years old. But I still see her there. Her enemy is not outside the gate, but beside her in the mirror. Everything she looked at was clothed in time. Everything.

  What did she see that kept her going? Why did she do what she did? And t
he experiments on everything, what was she trying to prove? I wish that I had the answers. I stare at the mirror and I think that I am so close to understanding, but I just cannot see it.

  I have sat many days on my throne and let the sun slip down below the horizon in an instant. There are times I only eat on the feast days. The Ruby Throne provides all that I need for energy to survive. I am becoming of the Blood of Oz. I hear the pounding of the distant heart, far away in the North. Each drop that falls through the Giant Hourglass is pumped through the land and infused with the magic from the Emerald Engine.

  Your dreams, Oscar, my dear one, bring life and magic to Oz. I miss you desperately. I long to see your face in the mirror next to mine. Your hand belongs in mine for now and for always.

  When I have painted, the tears fall freely. Even a blank canvas sings to me like your invisible birds. The canvas of my life is not so blank as the canvas in front of me, and I wish for what might have been. The blankness of the canvas shouts at me, screams to make me hear that it is not over; it is not impossible; you can be that person. Every time, do you know what I do? It sounds silly, I know, but I silence that screaming canvas with red. I do.

  Red does not scream at me. Red is the color I feel when I sit on the Ruby Throne. Red is the color of the heart of Oz, beating day after day, waiting for time only to declare the voyage complete.

  I am finishing very near where I began. Does the Land of Oz have an end to its life? If so, when is it? Will the land die a natural death? Will it be slain by the hand of an aggressor? Is it even possible for a land to die?

  I do not believe that I was called to hold the current civilization to the standard of reckoning that you established. They are far too pleased with their kings and festivities to permit that. However, neither do I believe that this land, governed by the traditions of the central cities, should be allowed to spin their golden web of decadence unfettered by the shackles of natural justice. There must be a weight and a balance to every act.

  How, then, do I weigh the actions of the few that guide the masses? Is it better that a land should be governed by a single king, or that no king lives, and tribes arise to make war? This land has seen both before my lifetime. Neither way leads to your proclamations of liberty and justice for all men.

  How do I let Oz die? Do I fight the natural order and proclaim myself above nature? It is true, all that I see in the mirror now is above nature. A woman does not learn what I have learned and look as I look without defying nature. In many senses of the word, I am above nature. I think. I feel. I make decisions. And I act. I change my mind. I grow powerful. I amass power to protect my kingdom. I am a queen unbound by the laws that govern my subjects. This allows me to defend Oz.

  But where does my defense end? If Oz is to die a natural death, who am I to stop it? Yet I wonder also if the natural death for Oz is to come at the edge of a sword, would I be wrong to stop it from falling?

  I have no answers, and so I continue as I always have. I will defend Oz and the Emerald City against all war that seeks to conquer. Whether the rot within collapses the foundations of this empire you birthed is not mine to govern. You established the foundations of the Emerald City. You gave it a heart to beat and live. It lives in your shadow. The Wonderful Wizard rules greatly and wisely. Yours is the invisible hand that has guided all that is good and bad about the Emerald lands. I hope that someday, soon, your hand will cease to be invisible, and that you can step forward in earnestness and reclaim the throne that is rightfully yours. A Wizard belongs in the heart of the Emerald City, not a king.

  Our enemy is time, Oscar. Every year that goes by is one that we cannot get back. Please emerge from your darkness, even if only to see me for a day. I will treasure you as a dream, for I know that dreams are real. Their scarcity in Oz, and the dependency which our very survival places on them, is proof enough of their value. Despite this, Oscar, my dearest heart, I beg of you, please wake up.

  In Time,

  Glinda

  HH4: Letter 41 (1210 Ozy/1894 AD/6 BDG)

  Dear Oscar,

  Forty years have passed. I should be an old woman by now, but I am still a maiden, awaiting your arrival. My hand is outstretched always to the north, waiting your kiss to bid me forth. What fools we have been, for so long waiting on each other to act. Do you await me in your marbled halls? Should I knock and pray enter? Would you bid me come to your throne and sit in raptured splendor as we wile away the years we have left upon this green Oz?

  I am waxing poetic today, and for justified reason. I have dreamed, and I have read much this year. Few things have come between me and the lessons left on paper. To wit, I have even read in dreams. Such a thing I never thought possible. There are many places I have seen, but there is one that I am most fond of considering.

  I dreamed a library unlike any I have seen before. The columns of great bones held the arched ceilings above. To approach the shelves was a quiet reverence unlike any I had known in waking Oz. The lifetimes of a thousand worlds slept upon these shelves. The wisdom of thousands of each world slumbered on these shelved pages. Many wizened stories from other worlds awaited only be picked up and read by some willing dreamer to come to life and wake anew on a young world. Such a thing I had not considered, yet here I was, a dreamer of a young world, sniffing the pages of the wise and ancient spheres.

  A book called to me from a high shelf. I ran quickly, because the call was heard by another man. He came quickly toward me. I read what I could of The King In Yellow, but the book was snatched from my hand, and I was forbidden to read further. Pity. I wanted to know more about lost Carcosa. I think I should like to see it someday.

  All around me the dreamers of young worlds took books of their choosing and sated their hungers in the old pages. When they arose, new light filled their eyes and the books became their shadows, following them awake.

  I looked all around for my shadow. Where was the book that would follow me awake? I beheld instead a shadow of light at my back, which I had brought with me from my world. I was unshadowed by any on the shelves, yet I desired that burden with all my heart. I wanted to belong to a story told in ages long past, rebirthed in my soul to give word and life to a young world. There were none other that called to me. The story was taken, and I was left silent, alone in a library of voices.

  I awoke with an ache such as I had never known before. What had I witnessed that left me so yearning for a place that was not mine?

  Through the days I have thought often of that library. The dream has not come again. Perhaps it is only once that a dreamer may see those columns of carven bone that frame the worlds. To spend a moment there is too much to bear, yet an eternity is never enough. That place is where I long to be. Yet I find myself here, in this freckled flesh, under this red hair, writing to you. I ache for the burden of a bookish shadow. Is my voice not enough to beckon and give life anew to old stories?

  I imagine you right now, taking my hand and sitting down and answering simply, "Tell your own story." Yet I long for glorious purpose--to be known of worlds long past as their voice in a new place and generation. I long to give over my shadow to the weight of destiny, to be guided as heroes of old.

  I liken my life to a book untouched on the shelf. I have not been studied nor sullied in the hands of others. I remain, ever waiting, for the reader to give themselves over to me and simply read and love. Is that too much to ask?

  There are books on my shelves now that have been studied by many before me. Their names bear strange significance as I relay my dreams through pen and ink. These old books have brought new light to these dreaming eyes and given me hope as I have gifted my dreams to the blank page. My shelves are heavy with knowledge, yet I cannot help but seek more. There are still children missing from my collection. The stories yet to be told must find their fathers and mothers before they are birthed on my shelves.

  And so I read and write, hoping that the shadow of something may fall on me, and I may find my true and everlasting purpo
se.

  Yours in solitude, with lighted shadow,

  ~ Glinda

  HH4: Letter 47 (1216 Ozy/1900 AD/1 ADG)

  Dear Oscar,

  I write this letter to you in a stupor. You are gone. I just received word from the young sorceress, Dorothy, that you left Emerald City in a balloon constructed in secret by Dorothy and yourself. You left Oz without her. You are going back to America, to the land you left behind so many years ago. I hope that you find the liberty and freedom that you claimed to love so dearly. You certainly did not defend it here. I hope you come to understand it better there.

  The Wicked Witches are dead. Young Dorothy destroyed them. She obtained both the Silver Slippers and the Golden Cap. In the short space of two months, she did what neither of us could accomplish in a lifetime. In addition, she persuaded you to open your doors and step into the sunshine. I honor her for her strength. She may never know what a wonderful thing she has accomplished.

  The remains of Kalinya's laboratory have fallen into my hands. I negotiated with Locasta and Nimmee-Amee for control of certain books and records. While they argued over what I call scraps, I collected the machinery and picture frames from beneath Dorothy's house.

  I suppose we know what happened with the conjunction, don't we? Dorothy came through. The Queen of Dreams brought her through the air to Oz, just like she brought you. The era of peace that Dorothy could have reigned over will now fall to another. The Silver Slippers are lost to all in Oz. I sent Dorothy away with them to find her home. In return, I received the Golden Cap.