by Lisa Fiedler
“Daisy . . . !” Glinda reached again.
But it was too late. With a horrendous ripping noise the shoot tore away.
And the Daisy girl disappeared in the deluge of dirt.
Glinda tamped down the shriek that threatened to escape from her throat and made her way back to the cocklebur cell. Again she raised the sword and brought it down upon the prickly prison, slitting it cleanly down the middle.
A sprinkle of giant seeds spilled from it.
And two beloved faces looked out at her.
She would have collapsed in tears of joy if the root hadn’t shuddered again. Without a second to waste, she helped her mother and Clumsy Bear out of the burr.
Clumsy had the hardest time of it, but they managed to climb their way upward through the dirt slide, barreling through the remains of the sinking palace.
Ahead, Glinda could see daylight through the archway that was the castle’s entrance. The bridge was in sight. She grabbed her mother by the elbow and sped toward it, with Clumsy loping along behind.
Glinda’s boots hit the bridge just as it broke away from the castle. She could feel the great force of the suction behind her, but they ran harder and kept running until they reached solid ground.
There Glinda turned back to watch as the castle sank away, disappearing into the rich red soil of Quadling. An enormous cloud of crimson dust billowed around Glinda, Tilda, and the bear, rising into the sky, rolling toward the Perilous Pasture and the village beyond.
It was through this haze that Glinda saw her friends.
Safe, and eagerly awaiting her return.
“Thank Oz,” she whispered. “They made it.”
42
FOR OZ, FOREVER!
They made it!” Ben cried as Glinda, Clumsy, and Tilda joined them safely at the far end of the bridge.
“Thank you all for your part in this courageous rescue,” said Tilda, her eyes shining with emotion as she patted Clumsy’s silky fur. “That includes you, of course, good bear.”
“Yooboo arb wubellcum,” Clumsy rumbled.
“Grand Adept,” said Locasta, bowing deeply, “I am so glad to see you safe. My name is Locasta, of Gillikin. My father, Norr, spoke of you with great affection and regard.”
“The regard was mutual,” said Tilda, pushing a stray purple curl from Locasta’s forehead.
Glinda nearly fell over when Locasta blushed. “Mother, I’d like to introduce Benjamin, Shade, and Nick Chopper. Oh, and the one with the wings, he’s Feathertop.”
The eagle, who had by now fully recovered from his altercation with the Witch, preened.
Tilda curtsied to her rescuers; when her twinkling eyes fell upon Ben, she remarked, “You have quite a familiar way about you. Have we met before?”
“No, mistress,” said the boy from New York. “But I, like Sir Stanton before me, hail from Another Place.”
At the sound of her husband’s name, Tilda’s eyes welled with tears. “Ah! Well, that explains it, doesn’t it?”
Tilda reached out a gentle hand to touch Shade’s cheek, then smoothed Glinda’s red hair, sighing with tranquil delight. “Look how young our future is!” she said, her eyes shining. “All promise and energy. Youth is a kind of Magic, for it is the most wondrous harbinger of progress and change. And hope.”
Glinda noticed that a crowd was fast approaching. The noisy destruction of the castle must have alerted the townsfolk. They were hurrying toward the once-forbidden grounds of the Witch’s palace, pointing and whispering, curious and confused. More troubling was the sight of several battalions of Aphidina’s soldiers, marching forth from their barracks in town.
Instinctively, Glinda positioned herself between her mother and the troops.
“It’s all right,” Tilda said.
“But Mother . . .”
“Watch, darling. And trust.”
To Glinda’s shock, when the soldiers reached them, every last one went down on a knee (or stump, or root, depending) in thanks to those who had vanquished the Witch.
Ben was the first to recognize this. “They’re honoring us!”
“As well they should,” said Tilda.
“But they were so loyal to Aphidina,” Locasta pointed out.
“Loyal is not the same as bound,” said Tilda, indicating the rusted manacles encircling Locasta’s wrists. Then she waved her hand over the shackles and whispered, “Golden, please.”
With a jangle and a puff of gilded smoke, the hideous iron manacles turned into beautiful gold bangles.
Locasta gasped, but Tilda went on speaking as if nothing even remotely extraordinary had occurred. “These soldiers had Aphidina’s Wickedness thrust upon them; they did not choose it for themselves. Those who were naturally inclined to darkness will have likely already scuttled over the borders into Winkie, Munchkin, and Gillikin,” she predicted, “to hide among the evil that dwells there. But these soldiers before us now are genuinely grateful for your courage, and they are placing themselves willingly in our command.”
Now she turned her attention to the restless crowd. “Good fairyfolk of Quadling Country! Today we find ourselves liberated from the Wicked Witch of the South.”
A murmur of amazement rippled through the assembly.
“This glorious victory is a great stride toward our noble goal of restoring a rightful ruler to the throne of Oz. This goal has long been a secret, wrapped in a wish and nurtured by a dream. But today, my friends, it has matured into something even more powerful—a promise. A promise that Wickedness shall never again prevail.”
The clear confidence of her mother’s voice, and the beauty of her words, had Glinda tingling with pride.
“But since it is my firm belief that until every Ozian is free, none of us are, we must prepare to fight. In the days ahead, we will join with Winkies in the West to topple the regime of Daspina, we will band with the Munchkins in the East to bring down the vicious reign of Ava Munch, and we will wage war beside the Gillikins in the North against the brutality of the Warrior Marada!”
Applause thundered from the crowd, as Tilda drew Glinda to her side.
“To lead us in these worthy pursuits, I present to you my daughter—Glinda the Good, Protector of Oz.”
A rousing cheer rose up among the spectators. “All hail Glinda, Protector of Oz!”
Glinda drew her sword and held it aloft; it glowed in the last rays of the late-day sun. “For Oz, forever!” she cried out.
“For Oz, forever,” the crowd erupted.
“Return to your homes now,” Tilda concluded, “to make ready for that which will come. None of it will be easy, my friends, but all of it will be right!”
When the crowd had dispersed, Glinda spied a familiar buckling in the ground; she smiled as the Road of Red Cobble appeared, and on it stood Miss Gage, who swept Glinda into her arms and spun her around. “You’ve done it! I knew you would.”
On the road behind Gage stood three distinguished-looking beings—a Winkie, a Munchkin, and a Gillikin. They all stepped forward and bowed to Glinda’s mother.
“My fellow Grand Adepts,” said Tilda. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“If I may, Grand Adept Tilda,” said the Winkie, tossing back his short yellow shawl, his fingers going briefly to the handkerchief that peeked out of his breast pocket. “Can you tell us what has become of the Gift that was entrusted to Ember? Was it safely recovered?”
“Indeed it was, Dallybrungston,” Tilda replied.
Glinda held out the sword and pointed to the green stone in the pommel.
“Excellent,” said the Munchkin delegate, doffing her blue bonnet. “And now that Aphidina has been undone, there is no longer any need to keep King Oz’s final thought hidden.”
The other Adepts responded excitedly, chiming their agreement.
Turning his purple eyes to Glinda, the Gillikin Adept gave a solemn nod. “And so it falls to you to commend the king’s last thought to time and space.”
“Where it will remain
until Ozma’s return,” Dallybrungston added.
Locasta frowned. “But if we release the thought into the atmosphere, won’t we be endangering it all over again? Won’t that be undoing everything the Foursworn have done to protect it all this time?”
Tilda smiled and shook her head. “Until today, that would have the case, but you and your friends have brought about great change.”
“Before the Wickeds attacked,” Dallybrungston explained, “the Elemental Fairies roamed free. They had no enemies, and no fear, for who could ever dream to harm that which is responsible for bringing about the world in which we live?”
“Now that Ember has destroyed Aphidina, he can once again enjoy the right and luxury of freedom. He will have the power to watch over and protect the thought wherever it may be, which is everywhere.”
Glinda was relieved to hear this. “How do I release the thought?” she asked, hoping there wouldn’t be another grueling series of puzzles to solve. Right now, all she wanted was to go home and share a cup of tea with her mother.
And a popover, perhaps. A popover would be nice.
Gage draped an arm around Glinda’s shoulders. “How do you release any thought into the world?”
“You think it?”
“Exactly,” said Tilda. “You think it.”
“Can you think it out loud?” Locasta suggested. “I just risked my life to save this particular thought, and I’d really like to know what it is.”
“I believe we all would,” said Dallybrungston, grinning.
So Glinda placed her hand upon the green stone and spoke King Oz’s final thought aloud: “That moment in which all is lost is the same moment in which begins the battle to regain it.”
Gage wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and nodded.
The Winkie murmured, “So true. So wise and so true.”
When Glinda lifted her hand, the stone was as clear as a diamond, and into the sky trillions of tiny green orbs were rising. Higher and higher, like fireflies at play. The awed little gathering watched until the flickering lights had all disappeared from sight.
“I thought it was only one thought,” said Glinda.
“One thought can become a million thoughts,” said Tilda sagely, “when it is shared with the world and embraced by the like-minded.”
“Certainly encourages one to think carefully, doesn’t it?” said Gage with a hint of a teacherly smile.
“But what did it mean?” asked Ben. “What the king thought?”
“I think,” said Glinda, “it meant that when something you cherish is taken from you, you mustn’t let even the space of a moment go by before you begin the fight to get it back. Even if the beginning of that fight is just waiting and planning until the time is right to fight in earnest.”
“In other words,” said Locasta, “be vigilant, be ready, and never give up.”
“Well said!” exclaimed the Munchkin Grand Adept, returning her bonnet to her head. “Well said indeed. Now then, shall we be off?”
“Yes,” said Dallybrungston, adjusting his shawl. “There are Minglings to arrange and spells to write and all manner of rebellions to attend to and revise, now that Glinda has defeated the first Witch. Magic may be patient, but let us not keep it waiting overlong!”
“Good luck,” said Locasta.
“And to you as well,” said the Gillikin, whose wrists, like Locasta’s had been, were encircled in rusted iron. “One day all of us in the North will cast off Marada’s chains,” he predicted. “Perhaps sooner than you think!”
With that, the three delegates turned on the Road of Red Cobble and headed back in the direction from which they had come.
Glinda watched until they rounded a bend and disappeared from sight. Happy and exhausted, she sighed, slipped her hand into her mother’s, and said, “Let’s go home.”
43
TWO WINGS THAT FLAP
It had been ages, perhaps even longer, since there had been such a hullabaloo in the palace Reliquary.
But of course the little monkey could not have known that.
He had been swinging contentedly from a rafter of the ruins when he heard the commotion. It had begun with excited voices and breaking glass and was followed by the sound of crumbling stones and a beautiful swelling of light.
From a safe distance, he’d watched with bright, inquisitive eyes, his tail twitching, the fur around his young face standing on end from the thrill of such activity.
And when it was over, when they were all gone, he crept over to investigate.
Statues! Eight of them, and all perfect for climbing. Chattering with glee, he scaled first one, then another, his narrow fingers gripping at shoulder blades and collarbones and corners of armor where none had been before. They felt heroic underfoot as he danced upon their heads and slid down their smooth backs.
On the Reliquary floor, he scampered across a mosaic of poetry, being careful not to cut his tender small feet on the slivers of colorful window glass that littered the place.
Five shards in particular caught his notice. These he approached eagerly, tilting his head this way and that at the dark smudges contained within them. He touched one with the wrinkled tip of his tiny finger and spun it. He took up a second and placed it beside the first, just so.
A puzzle!
Whooping happily, he slid a third piece into place below the first. The fourth he had to rotate in several directions before he could make it fit.
The final shard frightened him a bit. It was dominated by two red circles. To the monkey, these looked like hateful eyes glaring out at him from the lifeless glass.
But he was not the sort to give up on a task, especially one so entertaining as this. So he used the tip of his lithe tail to push the last piece into the spot where it belonged.
Pleased with himself, he blinked at the form he’d so cleverly assembled, wondering what it was.
As he studied his work, the glass pieces melted into a pool of slick liquid, smoldering with thick black smoke that molded itself into a dark shape. Tall, slender, confident. A Witch! Her eyes were the worst of it. They burned down at the monkey, and a voice as sharp as shattered glass said, “You saved me, tiny beast.”
The monkey let out a shrill squeal, frantically shaking his little head. He did not want credit for accidentally restoring this shadowy presence.
As if to reward him, the figure reached down and used her smoky fingers to inflict a violent pinch upon his back. He yelped at the pain.
“Oh little thing of tail and fur
Be no longer that which once you were!
To you I tip a Golden Cap
And here shall spring two wings that flap.”
The Monkey looked over his shoulder and saw two pointed, bonelike nubs pushing through the silver-blond silk of his fur. As he watched, the gnarled nubs expanded into wing-shaped skeletons, which covered themselves first with a film of Magical flesh, then layers and layers of iridescent feathers.
His little monkey heart sank in his chest and he placed his tiny face in his hands, for she’d done the worst she could do—she’d made him one of them.
Already the wings were flapping of their own accord, stirring up a small wind at the Witch’s feet. Satisfied with her work, she turned to look out over the Centerlands, the red sores of her eyes sweeping the skyline to the south.
The monkey looked too, and saw the great cloud of dust that billowed up from the land there. An explosion of dirt! Leafy debris, twigs, petals, and roots tumbled within it. And although the monkey was young and untaught, he understood this much: something had come to an end.
Something in the South was over and gone.
If the Reliquary windows had not already been broken, the roar that ripped from the throat of the window-turned-to-Witch surely would have shattered them.
The monkey cocked his head in the breeze of his own wings, his eyes asking why she was so distraught.
“Because I can feel the absence of the Harvester from here,” she growled
. “Engulfed in flames, that was the last sensation she knew. Do you feel it, monkey?”
The monkey, who was beginning to admire the harsh beauty of his new appendages, did feel it—fire and loss. He gave a shriek—eeet-eeet-eeeeet, ooo, ooo, ooooot—hoping his tone matched the fury of hers.
“See how the land of Quadling shines now,” she snarled, “there in the far-off and away? That is the glow of Goodness! That is the light of victory.”
The monkey shook his head in disgust, loving his wings and hating the Good. He stamped his minuscule feet on the stony floor and wailed, joining his screeching voice with hers as together they watched the dust settle.
Then, to his surprise, the horizon glowed green and the distance danced with the glimmer of a thousand emerald orbs.
The Witch stretched her arms southward, reaching helplessly as if to snatch the bubbles of gleam right out of the sky. “One Gift!” she lamented. “Free and safe!”
The monkey did not know at all what she was referring to, but his wings made him feel reckless and strong—and a touch Wicked. He wanted only to assist her. Mombi, that was her name; he knew it now, for suddenly he could sense the power of it. Hopping up and down, he tugged at the smoky drape of her black robe, his eyes imploring her to allow him to help.
She scooped him up and, with cold fingers, pinched the tips of his wings.
“For this deed
You’ll need great speed.
To North, West, East
Fly, tiny beast!
Tell the Wickeds what they must know
To see for themselves to the South they’ll go!”
When she flung him to the ground, the monkey took off like a shot, his skinny legs pumping into a run, his untried wings beating madly, lifting him off the ground only to plummet down again and land hard on his face.
Undaunted, he again darted across the floor of the Reliquary, his scrawny feet scraping over the mosaic poem. This time the air rushed under him, and his wings knew what to do with it. He sailed upward, somersaulting once but shaking off the dizziness.
