Shadows of the Emerald City

by J. W. Schnarr

  The glass fell from her fingers and she leaned against him, exhausted. David wondered if they would die here, their flesh dissipating until all they left behind were bones in the dusty wind, where the witch waited to eat them like in the fairy story his mother read to him as a child, fattening them up in separate cages.

  This train of thought made him somber, and she followed him, her face tired and pale. The sun was only beginning to crown the horizon, shedding weak light on them as they came to the main door. Easily twice his own size, big, wrought iron hinges and a lock like a lion’s mouth, teeth bared and snarling.

  David reached up, fingers clasping the cold iron, and rapped with determination, twice.

  Resounding silence returned to him. He knocked again and searched the facade, hoping to gain entry when she trembled beside him. A moment more, and she fell.

  He caught her and leaned her against the wall, snapping his fingers in front of her face. Her skin, infused with a gray tinge beneath the eyes and around the lips, testified to the severity of her condition. Weightless as a bird in his arms, her ribs poked out from beneath her skin like fingers.

  The door cracked open. David hesitated in the moonlight, expecting someone to greet him, but there was no one, no Winged Monkeys, no Munchkins. Darkness met him, and the eagerness of the castle to embrace them struck him as sinister. He feared to leave her, in case someone or something should encounter her, asleep and defenseless, or worse yet, in case he became lost in the empty castle.

  He gathered her into his arms — how thin she was — he lifted her and with care, and moved forward into the darkness, into the musty gray of the castle great room.

  His steps echoed like thunder in the expanse of stone. Each step he took affirmed they were alone, and arms aching, he continued to carry her up the West staircase. The air was chilly and stale as he ascended, and tasted like dust from a tomb.

  The stairway opened, door after door stretching before him down a dark and empty corridor. Balancing her in his arms, her head lolling back, he tried to the first door. A musty library greeted him, and he dismissed it, onto the next door; a lavish bathroom of marble tile and silver fixtures. The next door knob was reluctant, and stepping back, he kicked it in. A rusty lock gave way, and the door cracked open as he pushed his way forward, cradling her as he eased inside.

  Pale dawn light filtered through the castle window. He laid her down on the mattress, exhausted, and dragged the covers over her shoulders. When this was done, he sank into a neighboring chair, exhausted.

  His thoughts drifted until he dozed, succumbing to slumber. His guard dropped, his shoulders relaxed, and he felt that he dreamt, strange dreams moving in and out of his consciousness—cornstalks, his mother’s summer dress, the Scarecrow, whom he wished he had met; how he wanted to ask him so many things.

  His dreams weaved into pleasant things, warm and content.

  Hands moved over him, over the sore and burned places where the straw was singed and damaged, the most secret parts of himself he was terror-stricken others might discover. He dreamt of gray hands touching him, mapping out his chest until he tossed and turned with a growing, hungry lust; the tips of her fingers had deepened in color, a gray cast.

  He opened his mouth to remark upon it, but her mouth silenced his, and he realized his dreams had ended long ago; this was real life now and she sucked at his mouth with intense purpose, her tongue flicking in and out like a snake’s as she drew him to the bed.

  “Your hair —” he gasped, between her furious kisses.

  “Shhhh,” she soothed him, pulling him down. Her hair had grown back, wild and black and loose all around her, and a sense of alarm began to ring through him, a sense that everything here was wrong, the emptiness of the castle, the gray tint to her fingers, at the edges of her lips and her cheeks. Her flesh was unburnt, restored to gray, ethereal beauty.

  “Aren’t you afraid?” he whispered.

  She laughed; despite the gray hue creeping into her skin, she looked healthy, her single eye bright and glittering. “Of what?”

  “Of me.”

  The words hung in the air, before she dove in again, burying him with her mouth. He felt overwhelmed with sadness, to feel her touch those straw bits of him with such confidence, without fear or revulsion. It would a be sweet thing, would it not? To remain here, in Oz, in bed.

  “Afraid of you? How could I be afraid of the Prince of Oz?”

  He started at the title, overwhelmed with a feeling of horror — Prince? Prince of this? — and then the realization: of course. The Wizard had made Scarecrow the King of Emerald City, after the vanquished witch, but where was the King now? Still alive, trapped on Earth, serving an unearthly punishment for earthly crimes—crucified for the love of his mother, the daughter of Dorothy Gale.

  “How could I ever be afraid of you … why look, you’re only made of straw, aren’t you? A single flame could turn you to ash …”

  He felt dizzied with the constant touching, the pulse of her skin on his, she clawed at his flesh in tantalizing rhythm, until he felt exhausted with the terror of his boyhood, tired with the sadness of his youth. He let her take it away from him, kissing it out of him until there was nothing left to take. The castle breathed in and out with them, and he abandoned his questions and concerns about the pyro and where she had gone — he was with the witch now, and these were their lands, their kingdoms, and she was his, and had always been his for the taking.

  When it was done, the wind was humid and sticky in the evening light. Naked, he stood up from the bed, his arms crossed, staring from the window.

  “Where is she?”

  “I am here,” she responded icily. “Reborn; new skin, new beauty, and the witch is inside me. There was a voice in the water … Who could say no to such a chance? I felt it in the water when I drank.”

  “You are the Wicked Witch of the West, then?”

  “Reborn. Reincarnated.”

  He mused on this, and then began dressing, pulling on his jeans.

  “Surely you’re not leaving.”

  “I won’t be gone long, love,” he finished tying his boots, and then reached out his hand, caressing her gray-hued cheek with one hand. Her flesh was dry and cold, calling to him, and he felt the presence of this new life he could have, this world of strange hybrid people, hybrid scarecrow and hybrid witch, fashioning a new world together. The thought was intoxicating, and he considered that after all these years, he had finally come home, to the place he truly belonged.

  “I have to finish the past. It has waited far too long.”

  He kissed her, a long swallow of cool water. She watched him with a gray eye, and he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life, but he could not stay to savor it — not until Scarecrow was dead.

  The stalks whispered on the edges of his fingers.

  In the cornfield again; he slipped into that strange boundary where one world began and the other faded, a strange place were Oz corn gave way to the American grain belt, and he walked with confidence of young man, without worry or care.

  Since that long ago summer day, his father drove those nails into the cross, the straw bled from ragged clothes, and crows settled on the shoulders, cawing into the wind. He felt this would be a matter of dissipating the straw, of taking the Scarecrow apart piece by piece and scattering him on the wind like cremains.

  When he finally stood in the field, in the place his stepfather had nailed Scarecrow, there was nothing there.

  The cross was empty, the arms outstretched, but holding nothing; and David began to back away, thinking this had been a mistake, a dreadful mistake. He whirled, alive to every noise, every cricket song, every howl in the distant wilds.

  I should have stayed in the castle, by her side, but it was too late for that now. With renewed purpose he strode out of the cornfield and to the barn, where he pulled off the rotting wood planks. The barn had been boarded up since his stepfather hanged himself there. In moments he located the gasoline and t
he matches on the dusty shelves.

  He doused the cornfield. If Scarecrow was there, the smoke and the fire would flush him out, and perhaps cut off the gateway between Oz and this world. At the least, David planned to be on the other side by the time the flames consumed the field, and what happened to the Scarecrow would be the least of his concerns.

  He stood back to marvel at his handiwork, engulfed in the fumes of gasoline. He reached for the matches, but came out empty-handed.

  He stared at his fingers. He remembered placing them in his pocket, and he retraced his steps back through the cornfield, knocking down stalks beneath his furious stride, until he stood before the shed.

  He jerked the door open and pawed through the shelves. He grasped the old hearth matches stored in a Mason jar, but when he found it and held it to the feeble light, he discovered it was empty.

  A scratching sound erupted in the silence; David tasted the tang of sulfur on the air and turned.

  The Scarecrow swayed before him, shedding straw in his footsteps, burlap sacking torn and discolored. Painted eyes glowed in the light of the lit match he held aloft between them, between his dirty, fabric fingers. Straw jutted from the cuffs of his sleeves like old lace.

  “Son, surely you do not intend to burn down the field.”

  David said nothing. This was not the reunion David had imagined—love? Hate? Indifference? They mattered little.

  “I know you, son; you wouldn’t destroy the last door we have left between the worlds.”

  David smiled; the Scarecrow filled the threshold, and the match guttered and flickered between them, casting light on their grim faces.

  “No.” David moved forward to the flame. The fumes of gasoline surrounded him, and he clutched the gasoline can before him like a woman might clutch a purse. “No, that’s the problem; you don’t know anything about me at all.”

  Scarecrow realized in an instant his error in judgment—he moved to smother the thin flame of the hearth match, but with a single stride, David closed the distance. He thrust himself and the gas can into the fire; the fumes ignited.

  Scarecrow’s face twisted, lines in fabric, a cruel looking doll, eaten by flames. Burlap turned black beneath the onslaught of blazing light, and David withstood his burning fingers to push the flaming gas can between them, into the Scarecrow’s chest.

  He gave a great cry; more parts straw than flesh, he burned easily, and David shoved at the screaming straw doll, where he fell to the ground, burning black, like the edges of singed paper, burning into ash.

  David clapped his hands together, but his singed hands danced with flames, unable to put them out. His breath came in fast with panic. God, what if he couldn’t put it out? Oh God, what if he died, here, in America?

  And the flames would not go out. He doused the ones on his hands only to have new ones sprout over his already charred chest. Panicking, he turned and abandoned the lifeless Scarecrow, an inanimate heap. Through the brush, towards the field, and the flames on his chest flickered in his vision as he hit the first row of corn. They went up in flames like a thousand points of light, and gasping with exertion and panic, he ran faster through the rows, spreading fire on all sides of him with lightning speed. Incredibly, as the heat increased and dollops of sweat dripped from his face, he heard the distant sound of popping corn in the rows already burning.

  What if he couldn’t make it in time? He pressed himself harder, but the flames in his chest spread further, and his heart beat erratically against the fire. He gave in a great, whooping gasp, and fire filled his mouth. He stopped, turning, dizzied and frantic, when he heard her voice. The flesh of his cheeks burned and peeled back layers of straw underneath.

  She was there, and lovely—a dress of black, and he could see his fire dancing in her eyes. Her hand was held out for him, an umbrella in the other, and he stumbled forward, setting everything he touched on fire, every waving stalk and errant leaf into conflagration. Her figure marked the last steps he needed to return to the place he longed to call home.

  Her lips parted in ecstasy to see him in the colors of flame, and he strained toward her, desired to be doused by her tears. Only a little further now, he thought, and I’ll be in Oz, I’ll be with my Queen.

  Fire ate greedily at his arms, the smell of burning hair and sawdust filled the night air. He stumbled further, and found himself falling into the stalks, sending up sparks all around him like stars. He had time enough to say her name through the fire combusting in his throat, his voice, his mouth, until nothing remained but ashes. His vision failed as the fire consumed his eyes, and he felt the tendrils of flame, moving ever closer to his hybrid heart, and still, he crawled toward her, where she watched him, a hand at her heart, her jaw clenched.

  He burned and burned.

  Oh, yes, he thought, how she loves the fire.

  The End.

  Northern Frights Publishing

  In the Great White North, Blood Runs Colder…

  www.northernfrightspublishing.webs.com

  Cast of Contributors

  Mark Onspaugh grew up on a steady diet of horror, science fiction, and DC Comics. An HWA member, he writes screenplays, short stories, and novels. He lives in Los Osos, CA with his wife, author/artist Dr Tobey Crockett. Mark’s work also appears in The Blood of the Exodi (Michael K Eidson), The World is Dead (Kim Paffenroth), Footprints (Jay Lake and Eric T Reynolds) and Thoughtcrime Experiments (http://thoughtcrime.crummy.com/2009) and he has an essay on monsters in the forthcoming Butcher Knives and Bodycounts (Dark Scribe Press)

  On Dr Will Price and the Curious Case of Dorothy Gale, Mark writes:

  As a child, I loved the Oz books, but found certain elements both frightening and fascinating, like Princess Langwidere who changes heads as easily as changing a hat, the two-faced Scoodlers (brr) and the Wheelers. Baum says the Wheelers are all bluster, but those screaming creatures with wheels instead of hands and feet really stuck with me. I wanted to write a story that explored those disturbing aspects of Oz but didn’t debase the colorful, beautiful side. I also had a great deal of fun trying to emulate Baum’s melding of the whimsical and the grotesque, i.e. The Patchwork Jackal. ( www.markonspaugh.com )

  Rajan Khanna is a graduate of the 2008 Clarion West Writers Workshop with stories appearing or forthcoming in Shimmer and GUD. He also writes articles for Tor.com and maintains a wine and beer blog at ( www.fermentedadventures.com ). He lives in Brooklyn, NY where he is a member of the Altered Fluid writers group.

  On Pumpkinhead, Rajan writes:

  When I first read the guidelines for the anthology, I knew I wanted to write for it, the Oz books being a big part of my childhood. I also knew I wanted to write about Jack Pumpkinhead. Though he’s only in a few of the books, he made an impression on me and, together with Tik-Tok, was one of my favorite characters in the series. From there I started thinking about how Jack had to change his heads because they would eventually rot. That then led me to the story. ( www.rajankhanna.com )

  Barry Napier’s stories and poems have appeared in print and online. His collection Debris is currently available from Library of Horror Press. He is currently working on his second novel and a collection of dark poetry. Barry lives in Lynchburg, VA where he works as a freelance writer. He enjoys ambient music, dark fiction and irony.

  On Tin, Barry writes:

  Oz seems like a magical and rather quaint place, despite the abundance of witches (good and bad). It always seemed odd to me that among the beauty of Oz and the supposed innocence of Dorothy, the Tin Man was basically a simple machine that got frozen in time. If that were me, I think I’d be angry about my situation…it would make me want to make use of that axe. That, coupled with a history that I can only imagine would be a horrible one, gave me the idea for this story. ( barrynapierwriting.wordpress.com )

  Camille Alexa When not on ten wooded acres near Austin, Texas, Camille Alexa lives in the Pacific Northwest in an Edwardian house with very crooked windows. Her work appears in ChiZine, Fantasy M
agazine, and Escape Pod. Her first book, Push of the Sky (Hadley Rille Books, 2009), received a starred review in Publishers Weekly.

  On Fly, Fly Pretty Monkey, Camille writes:

  For the first time since high school, I was reading this Frank L. Baum classic about addiction, sexuality, assassination, manipulation, and self-destruction, and the phrase “‘History is always written by the victors’” kept thrumming in my mind. Stories often come that way for me: a single line running just ahead of my ability to grasp, while I scramble after it with words until the tale’s done. I write by the headlights, so the story drives me rather than me driving it. It’s always a ride.

  ( camillealexa.wordpress.com )

  Kevin G. Summers is the author of several stories set in the Star Trek universe, including the critically acclaimed “Isolation Ward 4,” featured in Star Trek: Strange New Worlds IV. He has also published original fiction in Lords of Justice and Tales of Moreauvia. Kevin lives in historic Leesburg, Virginia with his beautiful wife Rachel and their daughters Morwen and Ingrid.

  On A Heart is Judged, Kevin writes:

  I’ve loved the Wizard of Oz since I first saw the movie as a young child. Over the past year, I’ve been reading the books to my daughters, attempting to bring the Land of Oz to life for a new generation. I’ve always wondered about the origin of my favorite character, the Scarecrow. This anthology provided the opportunity to explore this dark chapter in the history of Oz. In the writing, I found that Mr. Baum’s fairy country isn’t necessarily a nice place to visit.