Scarecrow slung Kansas’ arm over his still-attached shoulder and together they rose and limped out of the swamp. Neither spoke until the earth was solid beneath their feet and the swamp of scarecrows was something that could only hurt them in their nightmares. He helped her sit down in a dell surrounded by trees, then plopped down at her side.
Kansas touched the nub of arm.
“W…” Her voice cracked. “Why…?”
It seemed scarecrows could still hug, even with just one arm.
“I believe in you,” he murmured. “Not in what you were when you first came here or what you turned into, but in the person you’re becoming, right before my black-button eyes. I wanna make sure I get to see the rest.”
Hope lit Kansas’ heart like pain. She allowed herself to lean against his chest, wishing there was a heartbeat there, underneath all that straw.
Stubby fingers stroked through her hair, then over her closed eyelids.
“You’re tired. Rest now. I’ll keep watch.”
Kansas’ head ended up on Scarecrow’s lap.
“What you did was noble and so breathtakingly stupid that I oughta kill you.” She buried her face in the folds of his flannel shirt, sleep coming fast. “Thank you.”
What a pair they made, Kansas thought with grim humor. Gimpy and Stumpy, traipsing through an ancient forest somewhere in the middle of Oz, trying to change the past to save the future.
If she had any laughter still inside her, she might have given in to it.
Maybe.
“You tired yet, Scarecrow?”
He smiled down at her and readjusted the arm she’d slung over his good shoulder, helping her keep balance on her good foot.
“Nah. Hay-heads like me don’t need much rest. Just give me a field and a couple o’crows to scare, and I’m happy as a pig in a mud hole.”
Kansas shuddered at the mention of mud. Her eyes strayed over to Scarecrow’s missing arm. Sure, his bravery had saved them, but it didn’t quell the uneasiness she’d felt, ever since leaving that place.
“Did that swamp look…familiar to you?”
“Should it have?”
“I don’t know.”
He gave her arm a squeeze.
“What’s on your mind, girl?”
Kansas shook her head, not knowing if she was just tired or going crazy.
“It’s just…all those dead corn stalks and scarecrows. They must have come from somewhere, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, didn’t it remind you at all of your cornfield? The place we first met?”
His corncob brows creased.
“I suppose so. Did feel slightly familiar, but I just figured that was me being a straw-for-brains.”
Kansas smacked his good arm.
“You underestimate yourself much too much. You think you’re dumb because others said you didn’t have a brain. But who else could have found that map? Who else would’ve figured out how to make Oz right again?” A lump as large as Emerald City lodged in her throat. “And who else would have torn off his own arm just to save me?”
He stopped walking.
“Kansas, that’s what friends do. Don’t you know that?”
Her words were no louder than a whisper.
“I think I’ve forgotten.”
“Then it’s up to me to remind you, now isn’t it?”
She had to look away from his wide, trusting smile. Scarecrow was kind and honest and full of hope. Just like she’d been, once upon a time.
Something shook a nearby bush. Kansas jumped, then scolded herself. Probably a rabbit or something. Calm the hell down.
The green branches rattled again, louder, with more force. The whole hedge shook. Okay, maybe it’s larger than a rabbit.
Then another sound broke the calm harmony of the forest, like a heavy chain being dragged across stone. The noise repeated, again and again.
Kansas’ heart pounded.
“I think we should get out of here. Now.”
Like a Tri-Pod, they hobbled down the broken brick road, roots and fallen branches tripping them. Neither had much balance—Kansas with her useless left foot and Scarecrow with his missing arm. What the hell would they do if something decided to attack them?
A glint of gray shone through the trees ahead of them. The scraping sound grew even louder. More silver sparks surrounded them, like a forest full of Christmas candles.
“What do we do, Dorothy?”
“I don’t know! I’m thinking!”
Heavy footsteps pounded on the golden bricks behind them, shaking shards of broken stone. Kansas bent and picked up one of the larger branches blocking their path. She raised it like a baseball bat over her shoulder and turned.
“Well, whatever it is, I’m not letting it touch me.”
A sound like rusted, screeching metal burst through the bush. More rustling branches. The sparks of silver moved closer.
Scarecrow grabbed a branch for himself and stepped in front of her.
Kansas tried to push him back.
“You can’t—”
“Sticks and stones can’t break my bones, remember,” he said. “No bones to break.”
The figure of a man emerged out of the tree line. Stocky and broad, he wore a pointed hat and carried a long stick of his own. He stepped closer, that awful metallic screech accompanying each step.
Then, he crossed into a shaft of sunlight.
“Sweet Ozma’s ghost!” Scarecrow cried. “Another tin man!”
He looked like the Tin Man of Kansas’ youth, except this one was more rust than metal. Stumbling forward like a drunkard, metallic squeals and screeches accompanied every step. As if controlled by a single cog, other tin men jerked out of the woods, each carrying a different tool of their lumberjack trade—axes, saws, rope, and hatchets.
Kansas shuddered. If these things had gone as feral as the scarecrows, then she and Scarecrow didn’t have a chance. She grasped her stick a little tighter.
“We’re not here to hurt you. Just let us pass.”
The tin man in front of them cocked his head, the gray eyes vacant. His cogs and gears ticked a regular rhythm as he stared at her. Two lines of rust ran down the silver face, like twin trails of dried tears.
He opened his mouth. A stream of black oil dribbled out, thin like blood, staining his chest. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Heart have you.”
Kansas’ eyes narrowed.
“What?”
He smacked his head with a four-fingered palm. Something broke inside his skull, rattled around, then echoed loudly as it ricocheted and clattered through his chest then down his leg, and came to a noisy stop in his foot.
“You have heart.”
The fractured speech reminded her so much of her own Tin Man that she could almost forget the broken shell he’d become.
Kansas’ heartbeat pounded all through her body. Was the tin man speaking about courage, or the muscle pulsing within her chest?
“I do,” she thought was the safest answer to give.
“I feel, may I?”
Scarecrow leaned toward her, voice thick with warning.
“Dorothy—”
“Kansas.” She tried to smile for him, to calm the panic she saw rising in his dark eyes. “If it makes them happy, and gets us safe passage through here, then Metal-Mouth can feel me up all he wants.”
She limped around Scarecrow and thrust her chest forward, like how Glinda taught her to earn extra tips.
“Go ahead. Feel away.”
More metallic scraping, and a freezing-cold hand touched her chest. This she could handle. Every night at the club, drunk idiots would touch her; fondle things that weren’t theirs to touch. She’d just knee them in the groin and be done with it.
Kansas knew she was nothing more than a body and a set of breasts. She didn’t need to be more than that.
The misshapen hand felt the other side of her chest. The tin man frowned, probably surprised he couldn’t
find a matching beat on the other side. His head spun around like a demented owl and made a series of grinding and clicking noises. The other tin men returned the mechanic talk, heads rotating around in slow motion. Gears shifted and clanked together. The stench of burnt motor oil filled the air.
Thunder rumbled the treetops. Light slid into darkness as heavy clouds rolled overhead.
“I think we should be headin’ outta here,” Scarecrow murmured.
Kansas nodded. Using the branch she’d picked up as a crutch, she hobbled forward.
“If that’ll be all, gents, we’ll be going.”
“You have heart,” the tin man who’d touched her said.
Well screw it all if he isn’t stuck in a loop.
“Yes, we’ve already established this.”
Rusted arms raised his hatchet. A coat of brown stains covered the blade.
“You have heart. We take heart.”
Scarecrow grabbed Kansas’ arm.
“Run!”
Her crutch made running easier, but she’d barely reached the tree line when something shoved her, forcing her to the ground. A heavy metallic body landed on top of hers. She cried out, body screaming in pain, and tried to push the thing off. It must’ve weighed five times her own weight.
“Scarecrow! Help me!”
“I’m comin’, Dorothy!”
She tried to beat the tin man with her tree branch, but he flicked the stick away like it was a toothpick. He flipped her over, then pinned her arms to the ground on either side of her head. She spit in his face, knowing it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. A wide knee crushed her legs to the ground.
“Get off me!” She screamed, squirmed, tried to break away.
Scarecrow was yelling, but she couldn’t make out the words. Kansas thrashed like a suffocating fish. All it did was wrench her shoulder out of its socket. She grit her teeth against the flare of pain.
Another low rumble of the approaching storm rattled the dying leaves of the trees.
“We take heart.”
“Don’t you touch me!”
The blank metal eyes stared at her, more curious than cruel. He was like a child; a mindless child that didn’t know what he did was wrong.
Another tin man lumbered toward them and knelt at Kansas’ side. A shadow fell over her face. She looked up and saw a long-bladed hatchet hanging over her head like an executioner’s axe.
“No! Let me go! Get offa me! Scarecrow!”
Two more tin men came over, touching her chest and face and arms and legs as if she were a puzzle they couldn’t quite figure out. Motor oil dripped from their missing lips, foaming as they gurgled like rabid dogs.
Frenzied, beyond hope, beyond madness, metal hands grabbed and scraped and slid over her breasts, raking like claws over her body. Fear burned through her with a cold fury.
“Don’t do this! Please!”
Pain flared across her chest. One of the tin men lifted a knife, stained with a thin line of blood. Hers.
Lightning flashed. The blade reflected Scarecrow across the glen, buried beneath a pile of tin men, his tree branch splintered and broken.
Kansas could only hope they would let him go, since he had no heart to offer them.
“We take heart.”
The hatchet rose. Kansas closed her eyes.
Thunder. A flash of light behind her closed lids. Needle-like rain splashed on her cheek, soft drops growing in weight until they stung her face and arms.
The tin men made that screeching-clicking noise again.
Kansas opened her eyes, one at a time.
All the tin men stared up at the sky, like the turkeys on the farm during a rainstorm. Orange oxide crept over the tin men’s metal bodies as they shrieked and screamed. Their bodies quaked, as if they’d been glued to the forest floor and couldn’t move. They stopped talking, stopped screeching. The constant click of rusted gears came to a grinding halt.
Everything went still. Only the sounds of falling rain and rolling thunder broke the silence of the woods.
Kansas drew a deep breath into her aching lungs. She didn’t understand. The tin men had been out here for years, right? How could just a bit of rain stop them now?
Above her head, the hatchet swayed in the stormy wind. Any moment now it would drop out of the frozen executioner’s hands.
She writhed against the heavy body pinning her, but still she couldn’t move.
“Scarecrow?” she whispered.
“Dorothy?”
“I’m over here. Under the scrap heap.”
She couldn’t see him, but heard the creaking of what must have been Scarecrow pushing his own immobile captors away. More scraping, and finally the dead weight lifted off her sore body.
Scarecrow’s worried face was one of the best things she’d ever seen.
He pulled her to her feet, then drew her close for a tight one-armed hug.
“No more of these close calls, all right? You’re making all my straws turn gray.”
Nervous laugher.
“I’ll try.”
He released her, then bent and picked up her makeshift crutch.
“I say we get the heck outta here, straight as the crow flies.”
Kansas couldn’t agree more. Scarecrow kept his hand on her arm as she limped forward, learning how to use her new crutch. Rain soaked through her robe and flimsy dress. Strands of damp hair slid into her eyes and mouth. Scarecrow babbled on about where the map said they should head next, and how they could probably put in a few more miles before bunking down for the night.
As the forest gave way to jungle, Kansas let Scarecrow’s cheerful prattling wash over her like a healing balm. Those tin men went for the wrong one of us, she thought. His is the heart they should’ve wanted.
Kansas woke to a frantic pulse deep inside her head. Had something happened?
She opened her eyes. Her head was pillowed on Scarecrow’s soft chest. Shafts of sunlight broke through the jungle canopy. Soft animal noises wafted on the wind and bugs darted about like hummingbirds.
Nothing seemed amiss.
Kansas looked at Scarecrow’s sleeping face and sighed. She would have liked to stay there in that protective warmth. Maybe forever. But they had to get moving. Who knew how far they still had to run?
She shook his shoulder and whispered meaningless words to wake him. With a yawn and stretch he was conscious and helping her to her feet. Well, foot. He brushed the yellow dust off her clothes and face. Using her crutch, Kansas dragged herself and her useless foot past the tree line to relieve herself. When done, she stretched, wincing as her scars pulled. They still felt raw, as if the Witch had only recently flayed her instead of over a decade ago. Her good foot hurt from all the running and stumbling and tripping she’d done in the last few days. Kansas rubbed her temples. She hadn’t had this much exercise since her early days in Oz.
Dancing at the strip club didn’t count.
She rejoined Scarecrow on the broken road and together they walked deeper into the jungle.
“You okay, girl?” he asked, sometime after the morning had passed into afternoon.
Kansas squeezed his hand in response. She just couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.
“How much farther?”
Scarecrow shrugged. “This area of the map was painted over pretty dark. Not sure how deep these woods go, but the Time Dragon’s lair should be right on the other side.”
They came to a fork in the overgrown road, where weeds had cracked the golden avenue in two, both paths leading deeper into the humid darkness of the jungle.
“Which way?” Kansas asked.
Scarecrow pulled the parchment out of his vest pocket. The thing had mud and grass stains all over it, souvenirs from their trip thus far. It still looked like a child’s scribble to her. “Uh, we should go…um…”
“You don’t know, do you?”
He shook his head.
“Both ways look like they’ll bring us ou
t on the other side, but I can’t tell which one is shorter.”
Eh, what the hell. She pointed to the right.
“That way.”
His corncob brow rose.
“Are you sure?”
“No.” She took a step in that direction. “You coming?”
He raced after her. They made an odd rhythm as they walked—the click-clack of her crutch and the scraping drag of his loose straw. Everything about the place was peaceful and calm—just like in the serials she used to read in the Southwest Daily Times—yet still, that feeling of unease gnawed her belly and hurt her brain.
“It’s so quiet,” Scarecrow said after a long stretch of silence. “Even the birds sound like they’re whispering.”
“Maybe we frightened them?” Kansas suggested, though she highly doubted that was the case.
“I remember a time when woods like these would be full of talking Animals, inviting fellas to tea or to talk about the latest news from The Vinkus in the west. Why, I remember this one time—”
A soft thud interrupted his story, followed by a faint scratching sound. Kansas threw her arm across Scarecrow’s chest.
“What—”
“Shush.”
Kansas squinted into the half-light ahead of them. Something small and round-ish rolled toward them. It bumped over the bits of fallen vines and broken stones. The golden lump swerved like a bowling ball and came to a stop at Kansas’ silver-clad feet. She bent over and ran shaking fingers over the soft velvety fur, then turned it around in her hands.
She fell to her knees.
The scarred face was covered with a crusty mask of mucous, blood, and dirt. It took her only a moment to realize she stroked the Cowardly Lion’s severed head.
Coal-black eyes opened, dead and accusing.
“Pathetic, Dorothy. Truly Pah-thetic.”
Her mouth opened in a silent scream.
Scarecrow tried to wrench the blinking head away from her, but Kansas’ fingers refused to let go. Something about seeing her image reflected in those deep, dead eyes froze her from inside out.
The head laughed, cold and cruel. The sound echoed in her ears, mocking everything she’d once trusted; everything she once believed in.
“Rarh. It doesn’t matter which way you choose. It’s all your fault. You killed me. Killed all of us. Proved that you’re nothing more than a little whore, just like your uncle always said. Nyah.”
Shadows of the Emerald City Page 38
