by Unknown
Without waiting for a response, he ran away and didn’t stop until he reached the meadow.
Even though Bobbin never saw the Witch’s Broom, every time the other field mice gathered to hear about his adventure, when he reached the conversation with the Witch, he told his listeners that the Broom moved tirelessly around the castle of its own accord, cleaning every nook and cranny, every crack and hiding place, so that it was the cleanest castle that had ever been lived in by anyone anywhere.
The baby mice shivered when Bobbin told them that part of the story.
Bobbin shivered too.
HOT AIR
Over the years, ever since he ran away from the Peppermint Home for Orphaned and Abandoned Youth, Finagle the Munchkin had been a pickpocket, a highwayman, a mercenary, a Nome wrangler, a goat washer, and once, for two weeks and three Saturdays in the Land of Ev, a wedding cake decorator. Personally, he considered the last two the most dangerous jobs he had ever done.
But then he had never before worked for a wizard.
“So let me get this straight,” he said to Oz as they stood on top of his observation platform, where they could see the Witch’s castle. “The Witch is a danger, so you want to me to go up in a hot air balloon so I can spy on her.”
“I can tell that you are a gentleman of unusual perspicacity and astounding perception, with a mind as sharp as a barber’s razor and as quick to snap as a bear trap,” Oz said. “And if you do this for me, I promise to pay you all the wealth I previously described, but even that will be as nothing compared to the treasure chests full of glory that shall be heaped upon you.”
“I suspect you get paid by the word,” the Munchkin muttered.
“What was that, good sir?”
“I said, I expect you are as good as your word,” Finagle said. He was puffing on a cheroot and blew a smoke ring in Oz’s direction. “But I have three questions I want answered first.”
“And I promise you three full and satisfying answers, answers that will erase the stain of any doubt and introduce in your mind a comprehension and understanding of the situation that will engender your whole-hearted commitment to the greater cause.”
“No matter how long it takes,” the Munchkin muttered.
“I beg your pardon, my dear friend.”
“I said, and that’s exactly what it takes.” He looked at the tiny basket and the large balloon, which was being inflated with hot air as they spoke. “Question, the first. Why is it you want me to climb up in this contraption and float over her castle, when you could clearly do it yourself?”
“An excellent question. A very wise and sage question. A wonderful question.”
“And the answer?”
“Why, the answer is obvious, my good friend. You need but consider your size compared with mine. Why, I am twice the man you are—”
“Hold on now!”
“Hear me out, please—simply by way of physical proportions. Why, look at me! I’m bigger than you in every dimension. Taller, wider, and thicker.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re thick enough.”
“See, there you have it. So, with me aboard, this hot air balloon would founder like a boat loaded with rocks, and that would do no good at all, not for anyone. And yet, with you aboard, a man whose size is, I daresay, in inverse proportion to his value, whose courage is worth his weight in gold, why the craft will certainly most positively and absolutely soar like a bird in the wind.”
“So, say I soar,” Finagle said, looking out over the valley filled with trees to the sharp edges of the Witch’s castle perched on a distant crag. “What should I see that a bird can’t see—why not just send a bird? I know a crow or two, even a mockingbird, who’ll do for you in a pinch.”
“That’s an excellent question. A very keen and perceptive question—”
“Go on with the answer.”
“Why, isn’t it obvious? I came to you for your reputation as the most courageous man among your people. Is a bird ever as brave as a man? No! Can a bird hold a weapon in his hands? No! Will a bird count the grains of sand—”
“I get the idea,” Finagle said. “So when the Witch’s Monkeys come flying up at me, just like they did for that mousy fellow, you want me to fight them off and then count what’s inside the castle walls—the soldiers and such.”
“Fight them off only long enough to release your ballast and man the hot air pump. Let the balloon rise directly upward until it’s beyond the limited flight of these heavy creatures, and then, when you are clear of the castle, release the air from the balloon just as I showed you and float safely back to land, where I will come and meet you. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” Finagle said, but it didn’t add up with what he’d told that field mouse to do—what was this Oz fellow up to?
“Drop the ballast and pump the hot air,” Oz repeated.
“Hot air—I’ve got it. It seems easier than fighting off a few dozen Monkeys.”
“I knew you were the man for the job,” Oz said. “Never has a recommendation more recommended itself. Nor commended its recommender, who deserves a commendation…”
He blinked and regarded Finagle with a fixed smile and a blank stare.
“Lost your flow of words there?” Finagle asked.
“Not at all,” Oz said. “Not at all. I was simply trying to say that you came highly recommended, and with good and self-evident reason.”
“Third and final question then,” Finagle said, staring hard at the castle, which protected the valley of the Munchkins from the wild creatures beyond. “What have you got against the Witch?”
Oz paused thoughtfully. He pulled a brass tube from his trouser pocket, held it up to his eye, and stared across the valley to the castle. Finagle was about to repeat his question when the Wizard finally spoke.
“In the land where I come from, we have wonderful institutions of learning, where a man can discover all the secrets of the universe, and that’s why these institutions are called universities,” Oz said. “And in these universities, there are wise men called philosophers, who ponder the fundamental questions of life. Being in the business of questions, they employ a tool named for their most distinguished predecessor, a philosopher named Socrates, and this tool is called the Socratic Method, and those who use this tool answer questions with more questions in order to reach a more enlightened perspective.”
“What?” Finagle said.
“That’s precisely how you do it,” Oz said. “So permit me to answer your question about the Witch with a question of my own.”
“Go ahead,” Finagle said.
“Do you know what sort of man the Witch might be interested in?”
Finagle narrowed his eyes. “Where are you going with this?”
“Yes, by Jug! That’s how you do it. Socrates would be so proud—OWW!”
Oz hopped on one foot, holding his opposite shin—the one that Finagle had just kicked.
“That’s for sending me up in a balloon with a bunch of flying Monkeys chasing me,” the Munchkin said. “And I want twice what you offered to pay me.”
MONKEY BUSINESS
Wisdom from Omaha: you only have one chance to make a first impression.
Oscar Diggs was not about to waste that chance. He stared at himself in the full-length mirror and admired the work done by the tailors in the Emerald City.
A double-breasted vest in emerald silk with silver buttons. A tailcoat in a complementary green, trimmed in black velvet. Fall front trousers in a lovely shade of fawn. He had never looked so good.
To be fair, the effect was marred somewhat by the straps holding the canister of oxygen to his back, and by the bug-like mask, connected to the tank by a breathing tube, that at the present moment hung loose about his neck where a less inventive and more ill-prepared man would tie an ordinary cravat.
He was, he assured himself, most inventive and well prepared and wholly extraordinary, even without a cravat.
More importantly, he
had a plan.
A plan, which, so far, had worked to perfection.
The first part had involved simple helium balloons and an even simpler field mouse. The balloons revealed the direction and speed of the valley’s winds while the mouse served up misdirection by relaying his false concerns about soldiers to the Witch.
The second part of the plan employed a hot air balloon, which permitted him to measure the speed and maximum ascent of the Winged Monkeys, who were his real target all along.
Now the third part of his plan—involving a hydrogen balloon, of the type popularly called a zeppelin—was about to be set into motion.
He climbed into the large gondola of the craft, which was moored to the top of the tower that the Emerald Citizens had built for him, and he untied the ropes that held him down.
His heart beat faster as the craft rose majestically into the air.
The Valley of the Witch was long and narrow, split by a gleaming blue ribbon of river, cushioned by thick green orchards on either side, and framed by rugged peaks of bare stone that reached straight up to the sky. At the upper end of the valley, a picturesque castle occupied a bluff overlooking the river.
“The question,” Oscar Diggs mused, “is why a witch needs a castle at all. Either she has great wealth, which her army of Winged Monkeys guards for her, or she has great enemies, which her army of Winged Monkeys protects her from. Either way, it’s the business with the Monkeys that is key.”
His palms grew sweaty as the great airship approached the Witch’s castle. He wiped his hands on his trousers and peered through the telescope. The Monkeys were already perched along the battlements and on the rooftops, eyeing his approach.
“The question,” Oscar Diggs asked himself, “is, How much is she willing to trade to get the Winged Monkeys back.”
Of course the bigger issue was going to be stealing them in the first place. It was too late to double-check his calculations. He had made his plan and—
Here came the Monkeys!
It was much more terrifying to see in person than it was to watch from the safety of his viewing platform. He pulled his mask over his face, turned on the flow of oxygen, and braced for the impact.
The gondola rocked as the first Monkeys landed on the sides and swarmed aboard. They ran all around the rim and rigging, curiously exploring the craft just as he’d seen them do during the previous tests. Then they began creeping down the rigging toward him, eyeing him warily, ready to pounce.
“Not yet, not yet,” he muttered to himself, his hands shaking.
More Monkeys jumped on. Then more and more. The moment they were all aboard, he yanked the rope he had prepared, releasing thousands of pounds of ballast.
Straight up the zeppelin went, fast enough to press them all to the floor of the gondola. In four seconds they reached a height where the air was too thin to support the Monkeys’ flight. In eight seconds they reached a height where the air was too thin for them to stay awake. The Monkeys in the rigging lost their grip and tumbled into the gondola at his feet.
Oscar shivered in the cold, but the dazed or entirely unconscious Monkeys were now at his mercy. He moved quickly around the gondola, binding them hand and foot and wing with ropes he had brought specifically for that purpose.
When he was certain that all his prisoners were secure, he changed the course of the zeppelin and reduced his altitude, bringing it back toward the Witch’s castle. All the way he gave thought to the encomium this daring would win him and the epithets that would cling like laurels to his name forever after.
Oz the Wise!
Oz the Wonderful!
Oz the Triumphant!
He moored to the peak of the Witch’s highest tower and descended a rope ladder to the castle’s courtyard, where the Witch was waiting for him.
She was older than he expected but certainly not much more so than an old maid or two he had courted briefly back in Omaha. She was taller than he was, but some of that was the tall pointed hat she wore. If he could only convince her to ditch the hat and put her hair up in a more practical bun.
“Very bold, coming here,” the Witch said to him when his feet touched ground. “Bold…or foolhardy.”
“Merely the logical thing to do…” Oscar started. He swallowed hard. Though he considered himself an accomplished practitioner of the elocutionary arts, this one would require every bit of his skill. He finished, “since I wanted to prove myself worthy of you.”
“Worthy?” she said, surprised.
“Worthy!” he said confidently. Witches love confidence. “The man who could capture your Winged Monkeys and return them to you is the man who can outsmart your enemies just as easily. Who better to be your ally than the man who could outsmart you…but didn’t?”
“What are you getting at?” she said.
He bowed low to her, and when he raised his head again, he smiled. “You have a kingdom without a king. I could be that man. You have a castle without a lord. I could be that man. You have a heart without a helpmeet…I could be that man.”
“Are you suggesting that I need you?”
“I’m suggesting that we need each other. Why, we could be like John Smith and Pocahontas, opening up virgin lands for settlement. We could be like Sacajawea and Lewis—or possibly Clark—expanding territories westward. Isn’t it manifest? Isn’t it destiny?”
She stared at him up and down, and he tried not to pose or preen too much, although he wanted her to notice what a figure he cut. Her glance slipped past his shoulder to the impressive airship moored behind him. A wicked grin played across her lips.
“So is that progress in your pocket,” she said, “or are you just happy to see me?”
The conversation went downhill quickly from there.
HIS NEW DIGS
The two witches shared a cup of tea in the gazebo situated in Locasta’s summer garden. Locasta held a cup of tea to her lips and breathed in the minty aroma while her sister from the East retrieved a small hat from her pocket and set it on the table.
“Here’s the Golden Cap,” she said. “Whoever possesses it can command the Winged Monkeys three times. I’ve used my three commands, so now I pass it on to you. You may need them next if he chooses to come after you.”
“Thank you,” Locasta said. “But I don’t think I need to fear him much, not after what you’ve described.”
“He’ll fool some with his tricks and bluster, like he has the folks in the Emerald City.”
“What else did he say to you, then? After he proposed, I mean. That was a proposal of marriage, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yes, it most definitely was.” She chuckled and tapped her silver shoes in delight. “So then he told me he thought that together, we could unite all four kingdoms into a single country, which, get this, he wanted to name for himself.”
“Oz?” asked Locasta.
“No, that’s just it,” her sister said, pausing to drop in another cube of sugar. “He suggested that we call it Diggety.”
“And that’s when—”
“And that’s when I pointed up in the air, to show him the Monkeys had chewed through their ropes and were flying away with my new zeppelin. Smoothest heist ever.”
EMERALDS TO EMERALDS, DUST TO DUST
BY SEANAN MCGUIRE
The pillows were cool when I woke up, but they still smelled of Polychrome—fresh ozone and petrichor, sweeter than a thousand flowers. I swore softly as I got out of bed and crossed to the window, opening the curtains to reveal a sky the sunny fuck-you color of a Munchkin swaddling cloth. There was no good reason for the sky to be that violently blue this time of year—no good reason but Ozma, who was clearly getting her pissy bitch on again.
Sometimes I miss the days when all I had to deal with were wicked witches and natural disasters and ravenous beasts who didn’t mean anything personal when they devoured you whole. Embittered fairy princesses are a hell of a lot more complicated.
I showed the sky my middle finger, just in case Ozma was
watching—and Ozma’s always watching—before closing the curtains again. I was up, and my girlfriend was once again banished from the Land of Oz by unseasonably good weather, courtesy of my ex. Time to get ready to face whatever stupidity was going to define my day.
As long as it didn’t involve any Ozites, I’d be fine.
The hot water in the shower held out long enough for me to shampoo my hair. That was a rare treat this time of year, and one I could attribute purely to Ozma’s maliciousness: lose a girlfriend, get enough sun to fill the batteries on the solar heater. It was a trade I wouldn’t have needed to make if I’d had any magic of my own, but magical powers aren’t standard issue for little girls from Kansas, and none of the things I’ve managed to pick up since arriving in Oz are designed for something as basic as boiling water. That would be too easy.
I was toweling off when someone banged on the bathroom door—never the safest of prospects, since the hinges, like everything else in the apartment, were threatening to give up the ghost at any moment. “Dot! You done in there? We’ve got trouble!”
“What kind of trouble, Jack?” I kept toweling. My roommate can be a little excitable sometimes. It’s a natural side effect of having a giant pumpkin for a head.
“I don’t know, but Ozma’s here! In person!”
My head snapped up, and I met my own startled eyes in the mirror. The silver kiss the Witch of the North left on my forehead the day I arrived in Oz gleamed dully in the sunlight filtering through the bathroom skylight. “I’ll be right there. Just keep her happy while I get dressed.”
“I’ll try,” he said glumly. His footsteps moved away down the hall. My surprise faded into annoyance, and I glared at my reflection for a moment before I turned and headed for the door to my room. Ozma—fucking Ozma—in my apartment. She hadn’t been to see me in person since the day she told me we couldn’t be together anymore, that I had become a “Political liability” thanks to my unavoidable association with the crossovers.
