Shadows of the Emerald City (52 page)

Then, water. And mud. Choking her. Pulling her under. Dragging her down.

She let her body sink.

The water was cool. And quiet. It was peaceful.

Murky water filled her mouth. A thin trail of bubbles wound away from her mouth, toward the distant surface.

She couldn’t bring herself to care.

If I’m dead, at least I’d be free.

A shaft of sunlight broke through the dank. It shone over her like a star. Then a figure blocked the yellowish ray.

Scarecrow.

His muffled shouts broke through the silence; broke her apathy. She couldn’t leave him all alone up there. Who knew what those creatures would do to him? Kansas swam toward the surface. Her lungs burned. Black spots danced in front of her clouded vision. Her whole body ached. Scarecrow’s voice grew louder, yet further away.

She wasn’t going to make it. She was going to drown, buried in a watery grave and no one would give two shits about it.

Except Scarecrow.

Kansas threw all the strength she had into one last kick upwards. Her fingers broke the surface. A coarse hand grabbed hers. Another reached down and grabbed her elbow. She rose, climbing through the muck.

Sunlight.

Air.

Kansas gasped, her entire body shaking with the effort. She spat mud from her mouth and nose, desperate for a steady, clear breath.

Hands pulled her close, rubbed her back and whispered soft words that didn’t mean anything. She didn’t need them to mean anything.

Kansas opened her eyes and glanced over her shoulder.

She quickly wished she hadn’t.

The flesh-scented puddles around them bubbled furiously. Shapes emerged from the muck. They grew taller, gaining bodies and limbs. Jets of liquid burst over them, red as blood. The water washed the thick mud away.

A herd of scarecrows surrounded them, still dripping mud and swamp slime. Male and female. All moldy and rotting away, limbs creaking and croaking. They wore overalls and fancy suits, sleeveless shirts and wedding dresses. Silver mist streamed out of their painted mouths, chilling the air. Covering their heads weren’t balls of yarn, but bloody scalps of every colored hair imaginable.

Just like the Munchkinlanders.

A scream died in Kansas’ throat.

The scarecrows took a step toward her. One opened its painted mouth and made a sound like a drowning child. It sent chills down Kansas’ spine so cold she didn’t think she’d ever be warm again.

The scarecrow spoke.

“
You…
”

It came closer. Kansas scrambled back, pressing into her Scarecrow’s chest.

“
You…
”

They were surrounded. They were trapped.

“
You…
”

Fear had always made her stupid.

“
Oh, spit it out, already!”

“
You failed us.”

Scarecrow’s hold on her tightened.

“
What?”

It pointed at her.

“
You saved him. Not us.”

“
What the hell are you talking about?”

The scarecrow took another step toward her.

“
You rescued him. Pulled him off his rack. Not us. You left us here to rot. To die. For worms and crows to eat our straw.”

“
But…” She hadn’t known that! Damn it, she’d been fourteen; lost and confused, and had a psychotic witch out for her blood. “I…I’m sorry?”

It reached toward her. It stroked the side of Scarecrow’s face.

Then it tried to gouge his eyes out.

Kansas pushed her Scarecrow backward. They landed in the mud. Kansas flipped over, heart pounding, ready to rip the other scarecrows’ apart if they dared come near them again.

The circle of scarecrows swayed, like stalks of corn in a summer’s breeze. It reminded her of the day she first met her Scarecrow.

The scarecrows stumbled forward, claw-like hands reaching and grabbing. Scarecrow yanked Kansas to her feet and slung her arm over his shoulder. They hobbled together, slipping all over the place, falling on hands and knees, then scrambling forward again. The others lurched after them, like toddlers learning to walk.

Something grabbed her hair and pulled. Kansas screamed and fell backwards, her weight sending both her and the other scarecrow to the ground.

“
Dorothy!”

A knife dangled in front of her face. The blade slid through her hair, twisting back and forth. She tried to pull away but the scarecrow’s grip on her hair didn’t let her move.

She groped in the mud for something—anything—to help her escape. Where were those bone-eating slugs when you needed them?

Something hard pressed into Kansas’ thigh. She reached for it and pulled her lighter out of her pocket.

Please let this work!

Kansas hit the rivet for the flint wheel, pinching her thumb but not caring about the pain. White and blue sparks burned her hands, but the wick wouldn’t light.

The knife trailed down her face, carving a shallow cut into her cheek. She hissed, but kept striking the spark coil.

Then, flame, weak, but there. She tried to light a patch of grass by her hand, but couldn’t get the tinder to catch. The small fire sputtered, flickering.

“
Don’t you dare go out!”

No good. The flame didn’t have enough dry tinder to catch. She tried it again, this time on her captor’s pant leg.

The material was soaked through from the bog water.

The scarecrow jerked her head back and placed the knife at Kansas’ throat.

A straw-filled sleeve landed on top of Kansas’ feeble flicker. The flame caught the dry tinder and burst into life. Kansas picked up the non-burning end and waved it at the scarecrow. With a sound like a dying cat it released her and stumbled back toward the circle.

The other scarecrows retreated. Kansas thought she saw fear glinting in their button eyes. But maybe that was just the shine of the orange-blue flame. She leaned forward, waving the blazing arm like a flag.

A passing wind caught an ember from her makeshift torch. The breeze blew it into the knot of scarecrows, igniting several of them. They screamed; a terrible piercing sound. They beat their faces; spreading the blaze. They crumbled into a pile of ash

“
Get back or I swear I’ll burn all your miserable carcasses!”

A low grumble moved through the group. One by one, they sank into the muck. Only a few ripples and flesh-scented mud bubbles marked that they’d ever been there in the first place.

Kansas felt her heart jump back into her chest. All strength washed out of her and she lowered the torch. Hysterical laughter burst from her belly.

“
Did you see that? We did it!”

She turned around. Scarecrow gave her a wide smile.

Hers died.

“
Oh, Scarecrow.”

He waved the empty stump where his left arm used to be.

“
Look, ma. No hands.”

Numb. That’s what she was. That’s all she could feel as she crawled toward him. Shaking fingers ran over the straw-wound. Only a frayed piece of twine proved there had ever been anything there; that there had been an arm that protected her or a hand that once dried her tears.

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.