Shadows of the Emerald City (6 page)

I moved a step closer to him.

“
I get very lonely,” he said.

I sat down opposite him across the table. My hand, dirt-stained and calloused, rested scant inches from his.

“
I tried to make a companion for myself once,” he said, softly. “When the loneliness became too great. I commissioned a Winkie carpenter to make her body – a much finer one than I have, certainly – and I planned to give her a head like mine, though perhaps crafted with greater care. Only the Powder of Life, which gave me my vital spark, and also the Sawhorse and the Gump, was all gone long ago and the magician who made it had committed suicide by jumping off the side of a mountain.”

“
I searched for another magician to help me, hard because magic has been outlawed for all except Ozma and Glinda. But eventually I found one, hiding in a swamp, practicing his craft there. He gave me Powder of Life in exchange for some valuables I had – a jeweled belt, and a bracelet of gold, both gifts of my mother.”

“
But couldn’t she have helped you?” I interrupted. “Since she can practice magic.”

“
She knew nothing of this,” he said. “She still doesn’t. I wanted it to be private. Personal.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“
Do you?” he said. “Well, I had the body, and I selected my finest pumpkin and carved her face myself. You may well wonder why I didn’t get a famous artist to do it, but the truth is that I wanted to have that connection. It may not have been the most beautiful face ever carved, but it pleased me and that’s all that mattered.”

I nodded again. “So what happened?”

He bowed his toweled head, then poured more of the drink into his mouth.

“
I laid her out in my bed, dressed in a nice yellow sundress decorated with daisies. And she was so beautiful, lying there. And I sprinkled…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I sprinkled the powder on her.”

I was almost holding my breath at the story.

“
Did it work?”

He raised his head. “In a way. It brought her to life, her limbs started moving almost immediately, but,” he took another gulp of the alcohol, “she had no sense in her. She was alive, but without any thought, without any brains. Mindless.”

I said nothing, not knowing what to say.

“
You can’t imagine what it was like to see her, to see this beautiful creature, thrashing around without purpose, without any understanding of what was happening or where she was. She…she attacked me. Savagely. I ran to escape her. Outside into the pumpkin field, and she ran after me. I was only able to stop her by…by
hitting
her. With a shovel. She fell down, but still thrashed. So I grabbed an axe and I cut at her arms and legs, splintering the fine, sanded wood, ripping her yellow dress and cutting the pumpkin from her head. Then, when it was all done and she had stopped moving, I dragged the pieces to the graveyard and buried them beneath the ground.”

His head lowered, propped against one wrist. I reached my hand across to his other, slipped my fingers over his worn white glove.

“
I never told anyone that before,” he said. “Not even my mother.”

“
I understand,” I said. And before I could think about it, and perhaps in an effort to also share something I’d never told anyone, I told him about my parents’ death and the graveyard and the garden I planted on top of it.

He nodded. During his talk and the drinking and listening to me afterward, his towel had come undone and his mismatched features were now revealed. A dribble of the liquor down his open mouth lent him a monstrous appearance, but I kept my face blank.

“
There’s more, though,” I said. “The night I left town, I packed up my belongings, preparing to leave. But I snuck back into town, and over to the graveyard. I picked the fruit that grew there – long, glossy red squash and strawberries, whatever I could pick, and I took these with me. As I traveled, I ate them, thinking in some strange way that I was keeping a part of my parents with me. That I had taken something of them out of the town and into myself.”

I sat back, suddenly drained and light.

“
Is that wrong?”

“
No,” he said, shaking his pumpkin head. “No. I suppose if I could have eaten my companion – I never named her, I couldn’t bear to – I might have.”

I squeezed his hand, happy for the sharing. Then I slipped out of the house and back into the field.

That day brought no new results and this was beginning to worry me. I had gone to Mr. P to help him with his problem, and so far I was no closer than when I started.

Maybe that was why I walked the fields looking for the best pumpkin I could find. This I carefully removed and took with me back to my room at the boarding house. Carefully, with all the skill I could muster, I wielded the knife, carving a face into the pumpkin. I gave it bright, kindly eyes, a strong, patrician nose, and a wide, happy smile.

I lightened it slightly, removing some of the pulp from behind the carved features, but kept a nice, dense seedy section inside. By all accounts, Mr. P relied on the seeds for his brains. When I was done, I looked it, pleased. I could never be accounted an artist, but I was good with carpentry and I’d made many a scarecrow.

The next morning, I arrived early for work, my gift in a reed basket, wrapped in a tablecloth. When Mr. P appeared, stumbling ever so slightly, his head still covered with the towel, I brought the basket to him. Trembling, on shaky feet, I held it out to him, wordlessly.

He took it, tilting his head to one side, and unwrapped it with his gloved hands. When it was uncovered, he had to pull the towel to one side to see what it was. Then he looked up at me.

“
I thought…since you had some troubles with the head you have now…,” I swallowed. “I can’t guarantee it will last. Not yet, but…”

“
It’s perfect,” Mr. P said. “Absolutely perfect.” He looked at me. “Thank you,” he said.

I smiled and returned to the fields as he carried it into the house to do whatever it was he did to change heads. I found myself wondering what he looked like without a pumpkin on top of his neck. Did he lose his sight when it was taken off? Did he feel that separation?

I continued to work in the fields, trying to gather more information about the blight.

Sometime after midday, I smelled a delicious odor wafting from the house. It was my habit to take a small lunch when I was working, usually a salad or a loaf of fresh bread and farmer’s cheese, but I had become so engrossed in my notes that I’d forgotten. My stomach growled at the smell.

Then Mr. P appeared in the doorway to his house, my pumpkin on his head, looking happy and almost regal. “Come in, Linnaea,” he called.

I did so to find the table laid, and a pie steaming on the tablecloth. “I made it,” he said. “For you. From my old head. Please, sit.”

I took the chair that was offered, noting that the other chair had no place setting. “The rot wasn’t so far advanced that it was no good,” he said. “And I hated to see it go to waste, even with its problems. Plus, I wanted to thank you.”

I sat down and cut a slice and moved it to my plate. Next to it was a bowl of fresh cream that he must have just whipped up. I plopped a dollop on top of the creamy crust. I wanted to ask him to join me - it seemed wrong to enjoy it on my own - but I thought that might seem to strange to him, eating of his own self. He’d always buried his heads before.

I placed the pie into my mouth, chewed and swallowed. It was sweet and earthy, and I dreamt of the taste later that night.

That evening, I brought my notes to Mr. P and we sat across the table again. “Thank you again for the head,” he said. “This one feels better than any I’ve had in recent months. I think better with it, and I haven’t been plagued by any strange thoughts since putting it on.”

“
I’m glad,” I said. “I’ve been reviewing the notes I’ve made, and I’ve ruled out a problem with the soil, with the seeds, and with any kind of pests.”

“
So what does that leave?” he said.

“
I want to do another test,” I said. “I want to try a new pumpkin. One that wasn’t grown on this farm. One grown on another farm.”

“
But I have such a wonderful head now,” he said, the disappointment plain in his voice.

“
I’m glad you like it, boss, but it won’t last. And I want the next one to be from another farm.”

“
I wish you would call me Jack,” he said. “Very well. If you think it’s for the best. But I think that this is the one. I think this one will break the curse. You’ll see.”

I smiled, but I didn’t believe him. It would start fading in about a week or two, then he would need another head.

“
I’ll ask around tomorrow, see if there’s a farm nearby where I can find them. Then when the time’s right I’ll take it and, if you like, carve it for you and we’ll try it for next time.

“
Okay,” he said. “Thank you, Linnaea. If it wasn’t for you, I think I might lose my mind.”

I blushed, then said goodnight. I went home with the leftover pie in my basket.

Over the next few days I continued my experiments, but I also roamed the countryside, asking around at farmer’s stalls and at the market. It turned out that Mr. P’s pumpkins were so readily available (for he couldn’t use all of them for heads) that many of the nearby farmers had stopped growing them.

I was forced to roam further afield, taking the better part of the week to find a farmer who was still growing them, and at sizes that suited my work. When I did, I was disappointed to discover that they weren’t part of his current crop rotation and if I wanted them, I would have to use some of the Growing Powder, which I’d left at Mr. P’s house.

By the time I returned to his farm, I could already see the signs of the rot in his face. The color, originally a nice amber-gold, had faded already, and it sagged slightly on his neck. The features I’d carved, while still pleasant, had lost some of their sharpness.

“
Any problems, boss?” I asked.

He shook his head, merrily. “None at all,” he said. “I’m telling you, this is the one.”

I decided not to pierce his swollen hopes and instead set about retrieving the Growth Powder. Tucking the little brown paper packet into the pocket of my coat, I returned to Mr. P. “I’ll be gone for a few more days,” I said. “You’ll be okay?”

“
I’ll be right as rain,” he said, bowing. “I’ll be fantastic. But hurry back. I thought we might have dinner on your return.”

I blushed, but nodded and said okay.

It took several more days for me to return to the farmer and for the pumpkins to grow, even with the help of the growth powder. The farmer must have thought me a queer sight when I sprinkled the powder onto the sprouts, saying the magic words (which always felt strange in my mouth). But soon the vines were stretching out across the field and the tiny yellow orbs of the pumpkins themselves had started to grow.

By the time the crop was ready, the farmer bade me thanks for the help, let me select the best of the batch, and then I was off back to Mr. P and his farm.

I kept the pumpkin whole for the trip, though intending to carve it before he wore it. He’d seemed to like that. I carried it in my basket.

Mr. P came out to greet me when I called, his head in worse shape than I’d hoped. The color had almost completely faded, now brownish-grey, and it sunk low on his neck, the bottom squashed against his wooden shoulders. Tears had appeared in the skin, and his once proud features were distorted yet again.

“
Linnaea,” he said. “It’s so good to see you.”

“
Mr. P,” I said. “I brought you a new head.” I held out the basket to him.

He looked at it without taking it. “But this one is working just fine,” he said. “This is the one you made for me.”

“
I know,” I said. “But I can make this one, too.”

He shrugged and took the basket, placing it down on his porch. “I’ll look at it later,” he said.

I scratched my head. “Okay,” I said. “But we should probably see to it soon. To see if anything changes.”

“
Never mind that,” he said. “How was…” He trailed off, looking at a point above my head.

“
Mr. P?”

His eyes returned to me, as if he’d just woken up. “How was your trip?” he said, as if nothing had happened.

“
Long,” I said. “It took days just to get the crop in shape. But now we have the sample. And I’ll be able to see how it reacts to you.”

“
Yes…” he said.

“
I’m going to go check on the crops here,” I said. “Then I’ll come back and we can do something about that head.”

Mr. P bowed again, and I saw the deteriorating crown of his head. “I will get to work on dinner, then,” he said.

I walked down to the fields with my notebook and made a record of how things were progressing. The crops seemed in fine shape, as well as I would expect them to be. What would be important now would be how Mr. P reacted to the new head. If that succeeded, then there was something systemic to the whole field, despite the fact that the fruits and vegetables flourished before being used as heads for Mr. P. If it failed, then it was something else. Some property of the process, perhaps?

For many years Mr. P’s heads had been fine. So something had changed. Something that affected the field, or…