by Lisa Fiedler
“Sounds like you’ve got a bit of the Makewright in you,” said Locasta.
A brass gadget on the table had caught Benjamin’s eye. With great reverence he picked it up and began to examine it.
“What is it?” Locasta asked.
“A theodolite. And a fine one it is.”
“What does it do?”
“It measures.” Ben ran his hand over the device, which was essentially a spyglass fastened to a wheel. “Calculates vertical and horizontal angles. Quite useful for mapping. I’m an apprentice surveyor, you see.” He bent a grin at Locasta. “Among other things.”
“What sorts of other things?” asked Glinda, returning to the trestle table.
“I dabble in poetry. I’m not entirely hopeless at fencing, and I’ve been told I sit a horse better than most lads of my age.” When his eyes fell upon a wedge-shaped chisel and mallet, he smiled. “Oh, and I’m a bit of a sculptor as well.”
“Truly?” said Glinda. “You sculpt?”
“I’ve tried my hand at it a few times, with satisfactory results.” He gave them a modest shrug. “If mapping is about recording what is there, then sculpting is about seeing what isn’t there . . . yet. My tutor taught me about a famous artist called Michelangelo, who said, ‘I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.’ I suppose it’s the idea of something beautiful hidden deep within something as abrasive as stone that intrigues me.”
“Beauty buried within something abrasive,” said Glinda, sliding a grin at the Gillikin girl. “Hear that, Locasta? Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”
She had to duck quickly to avoid the ball of yarn Locasta flung at her.
“The problem,” said Ben with a wistful look, “is that my father doesn’t see much value in things like art and poetry. He is a gentleman farmer.”
Locasta gave him a curious look. “Does that mean he’s polite to his vegetables?”
Ben smiled. “No, it means he is a man of great wealth and education who also happens to farm. And survey. Mostly he hobnobs with the important political figures of New York, Philadelphia, and Boston.” Ben’s smile vanished. “He is determined that when I come of age I will become a great statesman.”
“I take it you’re not the political sort?” Locasta said.
Ben shook his head. “Politics is not art. Governing is not poetry. I am as committed to the cause of liberty as anyone, but for myself I’d much prefer to create things of artistic beauty and leave the forming of a nation to others.”
Glinda had an image of Ben standing beneath a scroll that read STATESMAN and understood the look of frustration on his face. Although the forming of a new nation did sound rather exciting to her.
They turned their attention back to the Maker’s table, which also held crimpers and calipers, a brass drafting compass, and bolts of some heavy dull-colored fabric, twine, and straw; there were irons and pliers and shears.
“Oh, my,” said Glinda. There were hollow bamboo rods of varying lengths, a scattering of square nails, and several coils of rope. A sharpened quill poked out of a squat bottle of red ink, and beside that was a journal with a leather cover.
Her attention was pulled from the journal by a soft whirring sound, like a cat purring. Locasta was fiddling with a mechanical object that consisted of an open iron drum perched upon a small pedestal with a crank attached. A nudge from Locasta’s fingertip sent the tub part spinning.
“It’s a zoetrope,” came a familiar voice from the opposite side of the room.
Glinda jerked her head around to see Miss Gage. In all the ruckus, she’d completely forgotten that the teacher had arranged with Locasta to rendezvous here.
Gage was seated in a red upholstered chair. Angled toward it, to encourage conversation (or perhaps conspiracy), was a wooden chair with finely turned legs, painted cherry red. Between these stood a kidney-shaped table stained a deep magenta. How Miss Gage had entered the cabin and placed herself in the chair without Glinda seeing, Glinda did not know, though she suspected it had something to do with Magic.
“It’s been a day, hasn’t it, dear Glinda?” said Gage. “I’d venture to say you’ve learned more in this one morning than you have in the whole six years of your education combined. Horticultural expressionism, indeed!”
Noting Glinda’s damp clothing, Miss Gage made a wringing motion with her hands and said, “Dry.”
Glinda was not at all surprised to feel the moisture vanish from her dress.
“Hello again,” said Locasta, making her way to the teacher and handing her the silver filigree mirror. “Thanks for this. It was more helpful than I’d ever imagined.”
Slipping the mirror into her skirt pocket, Miss Gage smiled at Ben. “I see the Wards of Lurl are up to their old tricks. And you are?”
“Benjamin Clay of the New York Colony, at your service.”
Miss Gage inclined her head politely, then turned to Glinda and indicated the cherry-colored chair, inviting her to sit.
“The most horrible thing has happened,” Glinda blurted. “My mother has been arrested for performing Magic. She spoke to the Moon Fairy, and received a vision of the future.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Gage. “But if Tilda Gavaria risked a Magical discourse with Elucida, I’m sure she had a very good reason.”
“Who are you, exactly?” Glinda asked. “You are much more than just a professor of lullabies.”
“I am a Sorceress, and a member of the brave and noble Foursworn.”
“Are you a Grand Adept?” asked Glinda.
“Not yet. At present my abilities are a mere shadow of your mother’s.”
This reminded Glinda of Locasta’s comment about the snowstorm not being a result of “her” Magic, and she turned to the Gillikin with wide eyes. “Are you a Sorceress, too?”
Locasta shook her head. “I practice Good Witchcraft. Or at least, I will, with a little more training.”
“What do the Foursworn do?” asked Ben.
“Our goal is to restore Oz to its own deepest truth,” said Gage, “by overthrowing the Witches and returning the rightful Oz ruler to the throne.”
Ben nodded as if he had some experience with this sort of thinking. “And who exactly is this rightful ruler?” His gaze moved curiously to Glinda, who gasped.
“It isn’t me!” she assured him, then turned to Gage with a gulp. “It isn’t me, is it?”
Miss Gage shook her head. “The next rightful ruler is Princess Ozma, the Queen Ascending, and she will be the very embodiment of Truth Above All. Just like King Oz was before her.” Gage’s eyes twinkled. “And as she was before him.”
Glinda remembered her mother’s cards, the images of the armorless king and the girl dressed in green, then white. “I don’t understand,” she confessed. “How can she be before and after King Oz?”
“It’s all quite complicated in its simplicity,” Gage allowed. “The Oz spirit is never-ending and ever repeating. I’m sure your mother intended to explain it to you.”
“She started to,” said Glinda, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Then Bog arrived.”
“I only know bits and pieces of it myself,” Locasta admitted. “My father had begun to explain it to me, and then—” She frowned away the thought. “Maybe it’s time Glindorf and I both heard the rest.”
“It’s Glinda!” Glinda protested.
“I know,” said Locasta, grinning.
Miss Gage drew a deep breath before she spoke. “It’s slow work, enlightening the hearts and minds of those who have been so oppressed by fear and illusion. The bringing about of war is nothing if not an exercise in patience and preparation, but we are determined. Our revolution will happen.” Her eyes darted to Glinda. “In fact, it might even be happening now.”
Glinda felt a cold shudder race up her spine. Her mother, it seemed, had chosen her words carefully when she’d talked about “protecting” the Oz lineage, for she had mentioned nothing about overthrowing the Witches in a war!
But it was clear now that restoring the Oz spirit to the throne would require a great battle indeed.
“War,” she said, testing the weight of the word on her tongue. “It’s such a brutal thought. It’s hard to believe my mother would involve herself in such an undertaking.”
“The Good do not seek war,” Gage explained. “War comes looking for them in the form of Wickedness, poking and daring, baiting and bullying until Good can no longer allow it to go on. In the eyes of the Good, war is an unavoidable response to the reprehensible and intolerable. But it is never a lightly offered invitation.”
Glinda thought back to Clumsy Bear, surrounded by those heartless Field Waifs. He’d howled in pain and protest but had endured their attack without lifting a paw. It was Glinda who had seen the injustice, the Wickedness of the moment. And it was Glinda who had brought it to an end.
War.
“Only a small number of us remember the world when King Oz was our liege,” said Miss Gage with a wistful sigh. “Life for all was as it was meant to be when Oz ruled.”
Ben gave her an odd look. “Miss Gage, if you can recall the time of King Oz . . . well, I beg your pardon, but how old are you?”
Miss Gage smiled. “Older than I appear.”
“I guess time in Oz works differently than it does at home,” Ben noted.
“It must,” Gage allowed, tapping her chin in thought. “I know little of where you hail from, except that Earth forgot its Magic long ago. Here in the Lurlian realm, age and time and Magic dance around one another in such a way that years can tease themselves into becoming days, or, in some cases, shrink to mere minutes. Seasons buckle and spin, afternoons yawn and stretch themselves into ages, or curl into moments. Time is variable, like a tall man with hunched shoulders, or a tiny girl standing on tiptoe. It ambles, it sprints, it leans near or away, sometimes with great purpose, other times for no reason except that it can.”
“Speaking of time,” said Locasta, “since we don’t want the Grand Adept to spend a single moment more than she has to in Aphidina’s dungeon, maybe we should discuss how we’re going to get her out.”
“I’m going to save her,” said Glinda, surprised at how confident she sounded.
Locasta blinked. “You?”
“Me and Maud,” Glinda amended.
“Who’s Maud?” asked Ben.
“She’s an old friend, a Seamstress who dwells at the edge of Quadling. My mother said Maud would tell me how to rescue her from Aphidina’s castle.”
“You?” Locasta repeated with a huff. “Why you?”
Glinda planted her hands on her hips. “Well, I am her daughter.”
“I know that. But this doesn’t exactly sound like a job for a girl in ruffles. Or an old Seamstress.”
“Are you saying I’ll fail?”
“I don’t know,” Locasta snapped. “Let’s ask your dolly if she thinks you’re up to the challenge.”
“How dare you—”
“Girls!” cried Miss Gage, in her best teacher voice.
Glinda and Locasta frowned and fell silent.
“Now,” said Gage, her forehead creased in thought, “Locasta is right about this presenting a challenge. There is only one being in all of Oz who has the power to defeat Aphidina.”
“Let me guess,” said Ben. “It isn’t Maud the Seamstress?”
Gage shook her head.
“Then who?” asked Glinda and Locasta in unison.
“His name,” Miss Gage replied in a solemn voice, “is Ember. He is the Elemental Fairy of Fire.”
“I’ve never heard of an Elemental Fairy before,” said Glinda.
“Not many Ozians have. The Witches have been very careful to keep their existence from the masses.” Rising from her chair, Miss Gage went to the table and gave the zoetrope a little spin. “It hasn’t been difficult to do, since Ember and the other three Elemental Fairies have been in hiding for ages.”
“Hiding?” said Glinda. “Why?”
“Because the reverse is also true: the Wicked Witches are the only beings who can destroy the Elementals.”
This news was met with a long, grim silence.
“So Ember is Aphidina’s nemesis,” Glinda said at last. “And she’s his.”
Gage nodded. “For lack of a better term, yes. The Foursworn leaders, Grand Adepts all, intended to loose the Elemental Fairies when the time to revolt against the Wickeds was at hand. But until that time, they’ve chosen to keep the Elementals safely concealed.”
“Seems like a waste of perfectly good power to me,” Locasta observed. “If I were in charge, I’d have let the Elementals clobber the Witches a long time ago, whether the fairyfolk were ready for it or not!”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not in charge,” Glinda muttered.
“Perhaps there’s more to the Elementals hiding than just avoiding the danger of the Witches,” Ben suggested.
“Perhaps,” said Gage, “though only the Grand Adepts know for sure. In any case, the capture of Glinda’s mother has certainly hastened the course of action.”
“Gotta start somewhere, right?” Locasta’s eyes were bright and eager. “So why don’t you just tell us the location of Ember’s hiding place and we’ll take it from there?”
“I would,” said Gage with a heavy sigh, “but that, too, is a secret known only to the exalted Foursworn leadership.”
Glinda felt a rush of despair, and again, silence settled over the cabin. Then something occurred to her, and her eyes flew open wide. “Maud knows where the Fairy is!” she exclaimed. “She must! Why else would my mother tell me to find her?”
“Now that makes sense,” said Locasta. “Maud must be a Foursworn Grand Adept, just like Tilda. If she knows where Ember is hiding, she can lead Glinda to him, and Glinda can unleash him on the Witch! Problem solved.”
“Except,” said Glinda, “as you yourself reminded me back in the Woebegone, I am a fugitive. I’ll never make it to the outskirts of Quadling without being seen by the Witch’s bird spies or her plant minions.”
“Actually, I don’t believe traveling to Maud’s will be an issue,” said Gage, and to Glinda’s surprise, the teacher-Sorceress smiled. “That’s what the Road of Red Cobble is for.”
21
THE COUNTING SONG
What’s the Road of Red Cobble?” asked Ben.
“A secret and Magical road as true to Oz as the Foursworn itself,” said Gage. “It moves those who travel it at precisely the speed they need to go, and because it is invisible to Wicked Magic, as long as you walk upon it, neither the Witches nor their underlings can see or touch you. And since they don’t know of its existence, they won’t even know to look for you there. Only those connected to our cause will be able to detect your presence.”
“I wish I could build a road like that,” said Ben. “Where is it?”
“Everywhere and nowhere,” Gage said simply. “It’s an ever-changing safe passage upon which only the just and worthy may tread.”
“It found me in the forest,” Glinda said. “It brought me to a Mingling of Revos.”
“And it brought me to the clearing to find you,” said Locasta.
“See? Then it has already proven itself to you.” Gage sighed. “Although it does have its quirks.”
“What kind of quirks?” asked Glinda.
“That is hard to say,” Gage admitted with a grin. “The road reserves the right to behave as it sees fit, depending on the behavior of whoever happens to be traveling upon it at the time. I’ve been told it always has good reason for doing—or not doing—whatever it decides.”
“Sounds like an excuse for teaching lessons,” Locasta grumbled.
“It does,” said Ben with a shrug. “But isn’t that what journeys are for?”
“What happens when I leave the red cobblestones?” Glinda asked.
“If danger is nearby, it may find you,” said Gage.
“Well then,” said Locasta, “we’ll just have to be very sure we keep to the roa
d at all times.”
“We?” Glinda whirled to gape at the Gillikin girl. “We must keep to the red road? Who, may I ask, is we?”
“You and me,” said Locasta, as if daring Glinda to argue. “I’m going with you.”
“No,” said Glinda with an emphatic shake of her head. “You’re not.”
“Yes,” said Locasta with an equally emphatic nod. “I am. A lot is riding on this, and not just for you. For Oz! So it’s settled. I’m going with you.”
“It is the opposite of settled!” cried Glinda, trying to imagine how utterly explosive it would be to travel all the way to the outskirts of Quadling with Locasta traipsing along the road beside her. “When my mother told me to seek out Maud’s guidance, she never said anything about taking someone along with me!”
Locasta strode across the room and put herself toe-to-toe with Glinda. “But when she pushed you out of that wagon, she said, ‘Unite.’ Don’t you remember?”
Glinda did remember, but she had hoped Locasta wouldn’t. “You actually think she was talking about you?”
“I was the only one there!”
Glinda snuck a glance at Ben, who was standing beside the trestle table, busying himself with the Makewright’s collection of treasures. He was examining the lengths of bamboo, weighing them in his hands, calmly, industriously. If she were going to take anyone on this journey, she would much rather it be this intelligent, well-mannered stranger from New York than the fiery ruffian from Gillikin.
“Glinda,” Miss Gage prompted, “why don’t you want Locasta to join you on this journey?”
“Because she thinks I’m a silly schoolgirl in ruffles, and she only wants to come along to annoy me and make fun of me.”
Locasta rolled her eyes and flung her arms in the air. “I don’t want to come along so I can make fun of you, you dunderhead! I wanted to come along so I could protect you! But now you can just forget it. Go by yourself. See how far you get!”
With her purple eyes flashing, she stomped to the door and crashed out into the fading light, a strange mellifluous sound floating in her wake. It took Glinda a moment to realize that it was a sound of Locasta’s own making.
