by Casey Lane
The desert was vast, endless, hot, illusory, and scary. A maze of sands and dunes, and most of all the mirages caused by heat waves in front of her eyes, playing games with her senses. So many times had she imagined a well of water or a house and ended up realizing it was all in her mind. The desert could do that to one’s perception. And the Shifting Sands did that, multiplied by infinity.
This wasn’t just a desert. It was an entity with a soul, the cowboys used to say. The Shifting Sands didn’t just want you to get lost, to die of thirst, or to lose your faith in the maze of endlessness. It wanted more. It wanted to swallow your soul alive.
The girl reminded herself of the many men who had died in this place, mostly sucked down into the devilish dunes. If not the dunes, then the snakes, or the crows, or the flesh eating marauders, or of thirst, or from the panic of walking for days and reaching nothing. Or, the biggest sin of all, from losing faith in yourself.
Sooner or later the Shifting Sands swallowed the living. But not this girl. Not Dorothy Gale, or Door like her enemies called her. She wouldn't die, not in the desert, not in Kansas, not from a tornado… not until she found what she came for.
Thirst had dried Door's skin, urging her to sip from her waterbag. Her veins had begun hardening, her eyes had stiffened, and her legs promised to soon give in. Door only took a sip. She wouldn't waste more drops of water before she'd completed ten thousand strides. It was one of her many rules, and she never broke her own code of survival.
At the bottom of the hill, her eyes began playing games on her again. She thought she'd seen a house in the middle of the desert.
Closer, still dragging the coffin, the house didn't disappear. She heard a horse. The voice of a young girl. Someone preparing their rifle. Door could sense unseen weapons pointed at her. Not because she had telepathic powers, but because cowboys were too slow at drawing their guns.
The crows had gathered above her in the sky. And before any of them blinked an eye, Door had pulled out one of her revolvers, aimed at the man standing by the window of the house, shot him instantly and approached.
Crows divided and fluttered away.
Door could hear a little girl wailing and crying inside. Door didn't flinch. It wouldn’t be the first time she orphaned or widowed someone. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t unfair. Survival was the only law in the Land of Oz. In fact, Door despised the little girl for weeping and doing nothing about it.
Door approached the house and kicked the house’s door, looking for food and water, the means to her survival.
Chapter 3
Inside the house, Door walked stolidly toward the table. The place was dark, windows were blocked with diagonal wood hammered to the frame. The old man and his granddaughter inside were definitely hiding from something. A flicker of light from a gas lamp cast Door’s shadow on the wall, making her look like a giant. She sat down with the heavy weight of her weapons tied to her body.
"You shot my grandpa!" said the little girl, kneeling next to the old man and his rifle by the window.
"He'll be fine. I only shot the rifle so he'd drop it," Door’s voice was stoic, non-reflective, as if nothing really mattered. She pulled out her sword and rifles and lay them on the table. The three revolvers remained holstered at her waist. As for the coffin, she'd placed it near the old fireplace. "Fix me some soup. I'm starving."
The girl stood up, stomped her feet, mouth open wide. "How dare you—"
Interrupting, and like a magician, Door pulled her revolver out and aimed it at the little girl. "Soup. And some bread. No worms. Clean dishes. No spoon. I like to gulp."
The little girl's knees were about to buckle. She'd never been ordered with such a flat and unapologetic tone before. She glanced back at her grandpa. The old man nodded with approval as he propped himself up and patted her. "Do as our visitor says."
The girl went to fix the soup and the old man sat opposite to Door. "Just eat and drink all you want and leave please." He said, rubbing his aching arm.
"Rub it with some salt," Door offered, her eyes concealed under the tip of her hat. "Or better, soot from the fireplace."
"No need. It's a small wound. Thank you for not killing me."
"Don't flatter yourself," Door lay the revolver on the table. "I kept you alive so you can feed me. Figured the little girl didn't know squat. You got something to drink?"
"Hot beer, I'm afraid. A traveler left me a bottle yesterday, so it may still be good."
"Water?"
"All water in the Shifting Sands is poisoned, but you must know that."
Door tipped her hat, just slightly. "Arsenic poisoning. The Wicked Witch's doing."
"That damn green stuff she's infected the wells with." Grandpa said bitterly, licking his dry lips. “It gets better when boiled. That’s why the soup works. It’s not ideal, though.”
"How do you survive without water."
"Rain." He pointed at a row of buckets near the eastern floor. Slanting rays of sun pigeon-holed the roof above. "The lord leaves no one behind."
"I'll need some of that to fill my waterbag after I eat." Door noted nonchalantly, as the little girl came with a bowl of soup.
Door took the bowel, raising her head and showing a pair of green eyes. She swallowed and licked her lips before gulping it all at once. She made noises like vulgar men and outlaws.
"You're welcome." the girl folded her arms, sneering at her.
Door put down the bowl, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and burped. "Next time I want it warmer. I hate cold soup."
"You're obnoxious." said the girl.
Door still showed no expression. Her hand reached for the revolver. The girl stepped back and her grandpa's eyes widened with horror.
"Come here," Door said.
"Don't hurt her," Grandpa said.
Door didn't acknowledge him. She pulled the girl closer to the gun. "You know how to use this?"
"Me?" the girl gasped. "I'm only eleven years old."
"I wish I'd learned to shoot that young," Door said. "Your grandpa isn't doing a good job raising you. He should’ve taught you how to shoot."
Grandpa and the girl exchange puzzling glances.
"No one can be trusted in the Shifting Sands," Door said. "Even a kid like you needs to learn how to shoot strangers. What if the outlaws come knocking on your door?"
"She is too young for that." Grandpa said.
"Is she?" Door's voice escalated, just a notch. "I bet her parents died before her eyes by the hands of Wicked Witch’s outlaws. Right here in this house."
Grandpa lowered his head with defeat.
"It'd only explain why you're raising her in this dump." Door said and let the girl go. "Go fix me more soup. Warmer soup. And when I leave, ask your grandpa to teach you how to defend yourself against intruders."
Silence threaded its uncomfortable webs all over the place, as the girl left to the kitchen. Grandpa's stare was fixed on Door, for a long time.
Finally he said, "I know who you are."
Chapter 4
Door said nothing. She counted the bullets left in her revolver instead. It was mandatory to remember how many were left. She’d met cowboys who’d always saved the last shot for themselves, in case they were ambushed by the outlaws. Shooting one’s self was a better solution than to end up tortured. But that wasn’t the way Door thought. The idea of dying never crossed her mind somehow, not before she found what she’d been looking for.
"You're a bounty hunter," said grandpa, nodding toward the coffin. "You catch wanted outlaws and collect a price for bringing them in, dead or alive."
Door said nothing.
"Your last catch is lying dead in that coffin, and you're looking to get paid for it."
Door tucked her revolver back in her belt. It was as if the man talked to a ghost.
"Which means you're headed to Kansas," grandpa said. "That's where they'd pay you for the corpse.”
“Kansas is far away,” Door say. “The one in the coffin
is wanted in the nearby town.”
“Is it a brown man? A slave?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Only browns are wanted men. Not that it’s true. It’s ironic how the outlaws themselves are the ones who decide who is an outlaw in Oz.”
“You’re a white man yourself.”
“I didn’t say all of us are bad. Ever heard about the white man who fights to free slaves in Kansas?”
“I did. John Brown.”
“I’m amazed you heard about him.”
“Let’s not talk about him. I’m in no mood.”
“Fair enough. So it’s a brown man in the coffin, right?”
Door took her time to answer. "Browns ain't worth nothing these days." She leaned back, one hand over the back of the chair, chewing on some matchstick between her lips.
"That's an awful thing to say."
"The truth is always an awful thing to say,” she itched her temples. “They didn't call It Bleeding Kansas for nothing. Pro Slaves fighting Anti-Slavery. The road to a brown man's freedom is long ... and bloody."
"I can't imagine such harsh words coming from someone like you."
"Why so?"
"Because you're a Quadroon, what people like to call a Quadling."
"It shows?"
"Your green eyes are a dead giveaway," Grandpa said. "Your light olive skin. Your curls, which you're trying to hide in those braids. Not to mention your strength. I've never seen a gun drawn that fast."
"Part white, part brown. I inherited the best traits from both." Door said. She sounded like she had a toothache. Her words were both a blessing and a curse.
"I can show you the way to the nearby town after you finish your soup." Grandpa offered.
"I know how to get there. I'm looking for something else. The price I'm about to collect there is only a means to finance my journey."
"Where do you want to go?"
"A place most people don't believe exists."
Grandpa leaned forward over the table. "What place?"
"Somewhere over the rainbow."
Grandpa grimaced. His wrinkles consumed his face. "There are no rainbows here. The last I saw was before the stars fell down from the sky years ago, the same day the war started."
"You know that's not true," Door argued. "You know what I am looking for."
It took Grandpa some time to comprehend her words. Slowly he leaned back, rapped his hands on the table and chuckled with laughter. "You don't mean you're looking for..."
"The Emerald City."
"But it's only a myth," the old man couldn't stop laughing. "I suppose you're looking for a wizard names Oz too."
Door interrupted his mockery with a single tap from her hand on the table. It was as if she'd cut out a liver or a heart from the insides of the old man. Grandpa resorted to a sudden silence while the light flickered in the gas lamp.
"I don't know anything about Emerald City." He said. "Last I heard you'd follow the Yellow Brick Railroad they're building across America."
"The one the slaves are building while white man watches, you mean."
"That one, yes. A few months back they wanted my granddaughter to work for them. That's why I've escaped to this God forsaken house in the middle of nowhere."
"She is a Quadling, too?" Door smirked.
"My son, a white man like me, fell in love with a brown woman from Louisiana. He said she enchanted his soul the way she sang – yes, she is a Quadling."
"Her eyes are blue, though."
"Not all Quadlings have green eyes. If she played it smart she will go on, undetected, unnoticed, and live a good life as white girl."
"How can I get to the Yellow Brick Railroad?"
"The boys in Kansas must know. Besides, it’s said you get killed once you approach," Grandpa said. "Can I ask why you want to find the Emerald City."
"Unfinished business."
"Are you going to kill us after you finish your soup?"
Door realized Grandpa had a price on his head himself, probably for hiding the little girl from the Wicked Witch’s men. "Depends on how much you’re worth.”
"One hundred stars alive, seventy dead," Grandpa said. "Please don’t kill us. If you’re bringing us in, take us alive. We won’t resist."
Door finished her soup and gazed over the man’s shoulder. His granddaughter stood appalled behind him, as if Door was the devil himself.
"I think your granddaughter is annoying. I don’t think I can handle her babbling all the way until I bring you in," Door reached for her gun. "Seventy Stars is fine with me."
Chapter 5
At midnight, Door left the house and dragged her coffin behind her. The sky was moonless and starless like it’d been for some time. For miles and miles she trotted cautiously in case outlaws had been following her – not to mention the flesh-eaters. She also didn't want anyone hearing the faint moans coming from inside the coffin.
Her waterbag was full now and it felt safer that way. Stars and clear water were as precious as the gift of life itself.
Door moved on, trying not to think about the past. It'd been a long journey and what was ahead could be even longer. She had to find her way to the Emerald City no matter what. But first, she'd stop at the Booty Tonk Bar in the town of Easters to fix the issue with the person in the coffin.
On her way she came across one of those terrifying machines, half buried in the sands. She’d seen another before, back in Maine – a town in the Munchkinland region – a few days ago. No one knew what the machine really were. Where they came from. Or what they were used for. A bulk of metal designed like a small house with four, sometimes two, doors with a sophisticated engine under the hood. An opening in the front, another in the back. Smaller openings, four of them, two on each side of the machine’s sides.
They simply called them Machines.
They were rare, and could only be found in the desert, buried under piles of sand and dunes. Door had seen one used as a carriage or a coach, pulled by two horses, in Georgia. She’d seen poor families live inside one of the bigger machines once, though they were as big as sardine cans, compared to a house. Sometimes outlaws pried the doors or the hood off and used them as shields in war. Every Machine had what looked like a complex steam engine inside, one that didn’t work.
No one in Ozworld, which was another common name for the Land of Oz, knew what the Machines were for. They weren’t even a good enough protection from cyclones; though heavy, they swirled up in the air like any house in the face of a storm. One theory Door had heard – and liked – was that the Machines had come from another world through one of Oz’s many tornadoes.
Door walked on. There was no point in solving mysteries when she had a job to do.
Later, she passed through a small, forsaken town. Five houses on the left, nine on the right. Dark windows, abandoned shops, as if uninhibited. A town of dead souls, except for the ominous hiss of desert wind.
But Door knew the locals were there. They only hid inside their houses, thinking she was one of the Wicked Witch’s outlaws. In many ways she'd been an outlaw, but with a mind of her own. She was loyal to no one. Door's laws and rules. She'd been surviving for years with her morally-compromised behavior.
It worked. It kept her alive.
She came to the top of a hill, and on the other side could see the town of Easters in the distance. It wasn't lights that shimmered in windows or the sounds of dancing folks that made the town recognizable. Not even a welcome sign existed – there used to be one that said 'you're not in Kansas anymore' but no longer. The only thing that distinguished the town from any other was the inverted cross on top of an abandoned church.
Door took a deep breath and descended the hill.
Closer, she saw the inverted cross was green. A landmark and homage to the arsenic poisoned water, done by none other than the Wicked Witch of the West, who was obsessed with the color. This was one of the towns her men had raided and called their own. Things were about to get bloody.
<
br /> Chapter 6
Booty Tonk Bar, the Town of Easters
Blade and Hate barked with laughter while cheering and clinking their glasses in the air. The Booty Tonk was crowded tonight. All white men, mostly working for the Wicked Witch. All drunk. A handful of prostitutes. Some white. Some brown. A Quadling slave was forced to dance for entertainment on the table in the middle.
"All in the name of the Wick!" Blade cheered.
They rarely called her the Wicked Witch of the West. Neither did they call her Wicked. Wick seemed cooler. It made her sound like a leader, a celebrity, which she was.
"Something Wick Comes this Way!" Hate began singing, spilling beer from his glass, clicking his boots. He still needed a bath to wash off the blood of others, but so did everyone else in the Booty.
"So ya carved your name on the Quadling today?" the bartender asked, pouring a drink. "That's genius."
"And we left her hanging, up the hill, in the middle of the Shifting Sands."
"That'll be one heckova warning to all Quadlings everywhere." said a patchy-eyed man in the corner with a girl on his lap.
"Damn them Southerns," the bartender said. "They shouldn't be in this land."
"Damn them who want to free Oz from slaves." Hate gritted his teeth. "We end up killing them everyday in this stupid war. What a waste. We could've used'm as labor for building the Yellow Brick Railroad."
"I don't mind slashing their throats off to win this war," Blade said. "But I'd say we go after the Quadlings first."
"I wish we could." Hate said. "But the Quadlings can easily hide among us. They look like us and talk like us."
"Not all of them." the man in the corner said. "Though I bet we have a few hiding among us here in this room right now."
"They wouldn't dare," Blade said, shooting darts, not at a wall but at a woman's bare back. The bet was that she'd not scream or they'd kill her. She'd been strapped to a wall for hours. Not a Quadling though, a pure Southern slave from Louisiana they'd dragged along. "I can smell a Quadling a mile away. And I kill them instantly."
