The Wicked Will Rise (23 page)

“Have you ever—either of you—looked at the American state of Kansas on a map?” the Wizard asked.

Before either Dorothy or I could answer, or even nod a yes, he went on. “If you have, I'm sure you've noticed the shape that it is. Dorothy? Amy?” he prompted us like a doubting schoolteacher. “What shape is Kansas?”

Dorothy answered with confidence. “Oh, something like a round blob with a funny little hole shaped like a jolly fat woman cut right out the side of it,” she said.

I looked at her like she was nuts. If it was anyone except her, I would have felt almost sorry for her to be humiliated like this.

Not that I was in much better shape. I had no idea why the Wizard cared what shape Kansas was, or why I felt so strange, but it wasn't exactly a hard question, if you were from there. And I knew the answer.

“It's a rectangle,” I said. “With a little missing chunk out of
the top right-hand corner. I don't know why.” That missing bit had always bothered me; it seemed to set everything a little off balance.

The Wizard smiled dotingly. “Correct,” he said. “Amy gets a gold star. Dorothy wears the dunce cap for spinning foolish taradiddles.”

“But . . . ,” Dorothy said, sounding like a kid in school who just can't believe she's spelled an easy word wrong in the last round of the spelling bee. “They must have changed it,” she muttered.

The Wizard shook his head impatiently. I could see that he was getting to a point here—I just didn't know what it was.

“Now, girls, can you think of another place that's shaped like a rectangle—wider than it is tall—with a little chunk cut out of the corner?”

It struck me immediately. This time, Dorothy knew what he meant, too. We both answered at the same time.

“Oz,” we both said.

The Wizard gave a golf clap.

“Ding ding ding. Oz is exactly the same shape—and, it just so happens—exactly the same
size
as the great state of Kansas. There's only one small difference, which is that in Oz, that little chunk missing from the corner is in the
west
—right where the legendary valley of Oogaboo would be if it existed, which it doesn't and never did.”

I glanced at Dorothy, feeling a strange camaraderie with her. She looked as confused as I was.

“Look, just forget Oogaboo for now—that's a long and extremely boring story that I barely remember myself. It's something to do with tariffs and Winkie bylaws, if memory serves. In any case, it's not important. Here's the important question: why do you suppose that Oz and Kansas are so similar, geographically speaking?”

The answer came to me out of the blue. “Because they're the same place,” I said.

I hadn't even really thought about it; it was just sort of
there
, something that seemed obvious and familiar, even if it was absurd. Sort of like the concept of pi, I guess.

“Or something like that,” I hedged quickly, embarrassed at how stupid it sounded.

But the Wizard was looking at me with something like respect.

“Indeed, Miss Gumm. They are, in a way, the same place. Oz and Kansas occupy the exact same physical space, but on two separate vibrational planes.

“You see, when the fairies created this fountain, and called forth the Old Magic that would be Oz's lifeblood, they weren't just pulling it from out of nowhere. They were pulling it from Kansas.”

He gave me a meaningful look. “Explains why Kansas is so
very
dull, doesn't it? The fact is, it used to be a place of power. Dark power. All this time, it's been feeding Oz. Giving up all its magic so that this place could live. And yet, the balance has never been perfect. It's always been a bit inefficient. I'm going to
change that. I'm going to finally open up the door between here and there—merge them into one glorious place. And, of course, I'm going to put myself in charge.”

I was trying to piece together everything he was saying, but I still felt too muddle-headed.

The Wizard continued. “Now,” he said, “let's have ourselves a little ritual. Well, not so little actually. You have no idea how complicated it was to arrange all this. Dorothy, may I have the items?”

Dorothy didn't resist—she unstrapped her satchel and handed it over to the Wizard, who opened it and glanced inside, nodding with approval when he saw what he was looking for.

“Wonderful,” he said, first pulling out the heart. “I thought Amy here would be able to gather these for me, but when she became too much of a loose cannon, I decided that I needed some insurance. I'm glad I did. You did such a good job bringing me what I needed.”

The heart was pulsing with a strange golden energy, and the Wizard held it out and placed it in front of him, at the level of his chest. Instead of falling to the ground when he took his hand away, it stayed planted in the air, vibrating.

Next, he did the same with the Lion's tail and the Scarecrow's plush brains, which were glowing purple and blue, respectively.

“I had no idea when I gave these silly things to your friends that I was unwittingly working in the service of the fairies,” he said. “Creating the key that would unlock Oz's true potential. Now, Dorothy, I believe it's time for you to do your part.”

“Yes,” she said, zombie-like. She stood and took her place, standing next to the glowing objects. She suddenly looked uncomfortable, and the Wizard snapped his fingers in front of her face, freezing her like a statue where she stood. “Just in case she gets squirmy,” he said. “Are you ready, Amy?”

I stood up from my seat, ready to obey him. But I
wasn't
sure what he wanted.

“Yellow, blue, and purple. What's missing?” the Wizard asked.

“Red,” I replied. “The color of the Quadlings.”

“That's right. And what's red?”

Then I understood.

“Blood,” I said. It came out in a whisper.

“Good girl. It's your big moment. Isn't this what you've been waiting for?”

“I . . . ,” I started to say. But even in my blissful, hypnotized state, I knew this wasn't how it was supposed to go. It didn't feel right.

The Wizard noted my hesitation. “You've always been so strong-willed,” he said. “It's what makes you so special, and I respect that. But it's your choice, Amy. This is what I promised could happen, if you brought me everything I needed. And you've succeeded—after a fashion, I suppose. So go ahead, take your prize. Everything's in place, so fetch yourself a weapon.”

My blade appeared in my hand of its own accord, and I held it out in front of me.

“Just a moment,” the Wizard said. “Before you get carried
away. Just
one
more piece of business. In order for me to draw upon the Old Magic that comes from Kansas and rule over Oz as its rightful king, I'll need a queen. A
real
queen.” He turned his attention to Ozma, took her hand, and kissed it in a way I guess was supposed to be gentlemanly. It made my skin crawl.

“How would you like to reclaim your throne?” he asked her. “Would you like to be yourself again? Would you like to be my bride, and sit at my side as Oz's fairy queen?”

Ozma looked confused. But she was already beginning to change. A pair of huge, shimmering, golden butterfly wings—
fairy
wings—had unfolded from her back. Her green eyes were glowing, and her black hair was whipping wildly in every direction. She began to hover a few inches from the ground.

“Ah, yes,” the Wizard mused, looking admiringly at her. “I've always wanted to see the true aspect of a fairy. Even in my past dealings with them, I knew that they were only revealing themselves in a form that masked their true selves. I can't wait to see what you blossom into once the Old Magic is truly unleashed.”

Ozma didn't say anything. But she looked into the sky, where slowly and then quickly, a whirling, black vortex appeared. As it grew in size, I saw what it was: a tornado. A
cyclone.
Except that it was upside down and inside out, and we were on the other side of the funnel, as if looking down on it from above.

The Wizard was staring at it almost lovingly. “Right on time,” he said. “It's always so nice when things go as planned. Now, Amy, as someone who hails from the Other Place, from the
very spot where the fountain draws from, and who has learned to channel its Old Magics with such ease, I'll let you do the honors. It's time for Dorothy to die.”

I held my knife over my head, and felt power pouring into it from out of the funnel in the sky.

I felt the Wizard's spell in the back of my mind urging me on. I felt the darkness calling to me, too.
Rise
, the voices seemed to be saying.

Dorothy stood there in front of me, her face frozen into a silly, shy smile, and I almost thought I could see the person she had been: the girl who had come to Oz, stopped the witches, and saved the kingdom. Not because she wanted power, but because of her innocence. Because she was good.

I knew what would happen if I killed her. I would be accepting the mantle I'd been promised. Finally, I would be Wicked. Really Wicked. And there would be no going back.

Rise
, the voice hissed again.

It was time. I drew my knife back to do it. To kill her.

But just as I was about to bring it down, I heard Nox's voice. “Don't do it!” he screamed. “It's a trick! He's fooling you!”

I spun around to see him pushing out from the hedges.

“Do it!” the Wizard hissed. “Do it now.”

Then Ozma began to scream, her gossamer wings flapping wildly, and Pete burst out of her chest.

It wasn't like the other times he had transformed. Ozma was still there, still wailing and clutching herself in agony. But Pete was here now, too. He tumbled across the cobblestones, jumped
up, and grabbed the Wizard's throat.

The maelstrom above us swirled. The Wizard cried out—like that, his spell was broken. I blinked and dropped my knife. It clattered to the cobblestone ground. I wasn't feeling so calm and contented anymore. I was feeling pretty terrified.

Dorothy emerged from her trance.

“Traitor,” she said. She flung a hand out, and, like she was pulling a marionnette string, Pete flew away from the Wizard. She wanted the Wizard to herself, and now, as she approached him, his face went white. “I should have done this long ago,” she said. “Now, let's hear you scream.”

She clapped her hands together, and the Wizard
did
scream. His body began to ripple and twitch as Dorothy's spell moved through it, and then it was like something was eating him from the inside. “No!” he yelled. “Help me! Amy, help!”

But there was nothing I could do. The spell was quick. In an explosion of blood, guts, and glitter, the Wizard was no more.

The sky opened up. And Kansas rained down on us.

Have you ever looked at the American state of Kansas on a map?

The answer, at least for me, was, of course, yes. Obviously. In fourth grade, we'd spent at least a month of social studies on what Mrs. Hooper called our “Kansas Unit.” During which, we'd had to memorize the Kansas state flower (the wild sunflower), the state bird (the western meadowlark), the state song (“Home on the Range”—that one was easy), and stupid trivia like where the name
Kansas
was derived from. (Either Native Americans or French people, or both; I forget).

In addition to memorizing all that trivia, each one of us had to give an oral report on a famous Kansan in history.

Until now, I had completely forgotten it, but in this moment the memory came back to me fully formed.

I had wanted to do my famous Kansan report on Dorothy from
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
. I'd had my heart set on it, in fact. But Madison Pendleton had gotten to school early and had
called dibs on it before anyone else could even get a chance.

Then, when I'd asked Mrs. Hooper if I could do Mary Ann from
Gilligan's Island
instead, Mrs. Hooper had told me it wasn't allowed, because Mary Ann Summers isn't a real person.

Dorothy Gale from
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
isn't a real person either, I'd said.

But Mrs. Hooper loved Madison Pendleton. She loved her so much that she would sometimes let her sit next to her at lunch so that they could brush each other's hair.

Mrs. Hooper hated me. “Dorothy isn't real, but she's
important.
She's one of our most famous Kansans,” she said. “Mary Ann from
Gilligan's Island
is not important. In fact, Amy, I always thought Mary Ann was from Oklahoma. Are you sure you're not thinking of the Howells?”

I knew it wasn't worth arguing, so I asked if I could do Amelia Earhart. If you thought about it, she seemed, at the time at least, to be a little bit like Dorothy, except real. But Mrs. Hooper gave that one to Candy Sinclair, her second favorite fourth grader after Madison Pendleton, and finally assigned me Bob Dole just to be mean.

Kansas had never been particularly kind to me.

And now I was back there. I was back home— if you could still call it that—and I had been brought there the way I'd left it: through a tornado.

The only thing is, it didn't feel much like Kansas anymore.

And I wasn't alone.

The two of us stood there, together: me and Dorothy, right
where we had both started. In Kansas. In the Dusty Acres trailer park, to be exact. Not that there was much left of it: I guess when the tornado had taken me to Oz, it had made quick work of this place. Now it was just an empty expanse of gray dust, with a sign:
Dusty Acres
, it read.
If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now.

The only other thing that remained of the place I'd once lived was the concrete barbecue that no one ever used except for on the Fourth of July. Only now, it was blazing with fire, and a single dark figure was hunched over it. The figure was both clear and indistinct at the same time—solid, but blurry at the edges. Then the figure broke apart, and I saw that it wasn't one but three: from out of the darkness, a trio of women emerged, each of them wearing a heavy cloak in a different color: red, gold, and blue. Another cloak, a purple one, was lying in the dirt next to them, without an owner.

Witches. I recognized the one in red. It was Glamora.

In the distance, I thought I heard another voice calling my name—a voice that seemed familiar, but that I couldn't quite place. It was a boy. A man. It was someone important, someone who mattered to me, but I couldn't remember why.

“Rise, little witch,” Glamora said. “Take your place among us.”

I stepped forward.