Chapter Fourteen. Dorothy
FOURTEEN
Dorothy
My hands are shaking, my heart racing.
Untying the man from the pole takes longer than I’d like. I’m horrible at undoing knots on a good day.
A hundred scenarios run through my mind as I work at the rope. What an awful thing to do to another person—beat them bloody and tie them to a pole.
Who would do such a thing? Was it the Tin Woodman? The heartless man, they said?
What kind of place is this anyway?
I just want to go home.
When I get the ropes free from his arms, the beaten man slumps forward, the pole sagging in the ground as his weight shifts.
And when I finally get the last rope undone from his waist, he practically melts from his trappings, hitting the ground like he’s boneless.
I hurry to him, kneeling in the dirt. “Are you okay? I almost walked past you. I thought you were a scarecrow.”
His movements are slow and labored. “I’m all right. I’m glad you came by when you did.”
He has an accent, something vaguely British, and when he sits upright, back propped against the pole that just held him hostage, I’m caught off guard by how handsome he is.
It’s a shocking conclusion in a shocking scenario, and could I be any shallower?
Come on, Dorothy.
Beside me, Toto growls.
The man chuckles and gives Toto a pat on the head and Toto tries nipping at his hand.
“Toto! Don’t you dare!”
“Feisty little thing, are you?” the man says.
“I’m so sorry. He thinks he’s bigger than he is.”
The man finally looks at me. His eyes are bright green. An alarming shade, like the color of the soft pulp of a lime.
“Are you from around here?” I ask him.
He’s wearing a black shirt with an abstract design embroidered in gold along the collar. Over it, he’s got on a black jacket with broad shoulders and narrow lapels.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess he’s just come from a fancy party.
“Hmm.” The sound hums in the base of his throat.
He glances left, then right, but there’s nothing to see.
Just rows and rows of corn. He frowns and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, swiping away some of the blood.
There is a searching hunger on his face.
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know? ”
“You don’t know if you’re from here?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t remember anything before waking.”
“You have no memory?”
“I guess not.”
There’s a cut along his forehead, another on his cheek, and his hair is wet and mussed like he’s been baking in the sun all day.
“Do you have a name?” I ask.
Toto finally curls into my side.
The man narrows his eyes, thinking. “I’m afraid I don’t remember that either. But you said you thought I was a scarecrow? Perhaps that is my name.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“For lack of a better one…”
I consider him for a second. His hair is black like a crow, and his features are sharp like one too. Em always said the crows on the farm were wise creatures, all-knowing. And even though this man has no memories, there is a depth to his gaze that feels bottomless.
“Rook is another name for crow. How about if we call you Rook for now?”
The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. “A worthy name.” But then he collapses into a fit of wet, hacking coughs.
“I have water. Hold on. Let me … it’s in my basket. I’ll be right back.”
I race back through the corn, then launch myself over the fence, retrieving my picnic basket where I dropped it on the Yellow Brick Road. When I return to him, the coughing has subsided, but his head is resting against the pole, his eyes closed.
Is he dead?
Encountering two dead bodies in this strange land in just a matter of hours can’t possibly be a good omen.
I inch forward, eyeing the man’s chest. But with his dark clothing, and the dark sky overhead, it’s impossible to tell.
“Rook?”
He jolts and his eyes pop open, refocusing on me.
“Thank god. I thought … never mind. Here.” I sink to my knees and dig inside the basket, pulling out Henry’s red thermos. I pour a drink into the cup that serves as the thermos lid, then hand it over gently.
“Thank you.” He takes the offering and drinks slowly, wincing around the cut on his lip.
“Do you know how long you’ve been here?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I … maybe?”
I push aside the potatoes in the basket and retrieve the singular apple. “Take this. The sugar will help replenish some of your energy, at least.”
He nods and takes the fruit, biting into it quickly.
The apple cracks open beneath his teeth and juice runs down his chin.
I swallow hard.
Toto groans beside me.
“Where were you headed?” he asks between bites.
“Um … the Emerald City?”
He spins the apple between thumb and forefinger, biting as he goes.
“Have you heard of it?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. Is it far?”
“I can’t be sure. I’ve never been here.”
“In the cornfield?”
“No. I mean Oz.”
“Oh.” He swallows. A lock of hair falls over his forehead and he swipes it back with a run of his fingers.
There is more blood peppered on the back of his hand, and a scrape running between his two largest knuckles. The movement causes the veins to rise beneath the skin like a tributary.
“If you’ve never been here,” he asks, “then where are you from?”
I refocus and look away from his hand. “Kansas.”
“Hmmm.” He thinks, then, “I’ve never heard of Kansas either. That’s a bit troubling.”
“Actually, you aren’t the only one. I seem to have landed far from home.”
He takes the last bite of the apple and tosses the core into the cornfield. Color has already returned to his face.
“Can you walk?” I ask him.
He nods at me and slowly rises to his feet. But once he’s upright, he sways and I have to catch him beneath the arm.
All of his weight comes down on me and I stumble with him.
“Apologies, miss.”
“Dorothy.”
“Dorothy,” he corrects. “If you aren’t from here, how do you know where you’re going?”
“I don’t. Not really. A witch told me where to go.”
“Is she a friendly witch?”
We take one tentative step forward, back toward the Yellow Brick Road.
“She called herself a good witch.”
He laughs beneath his breath. “If you have to call yourself good, are you truly good?”
“You make an excellent point.”
“Do I?”
I crane my neck to look at him. He’s easily half a foot taller than I am, and even through his shirt, I can tell he’s corded in muscle.
He smells good too. Especially for someone who was tied to a pole in a cornfield. Something cool, and crisp, like a sharp winter morning.
“So a good witch told you to go to the Emerald City. Why did you need to be told where to go? Do you often need to be told what to do?”
I scowl up at him. “No. Absolutely not.”
He chuckles. “No offense meant, of course.”
“Sorry, I just … well, my aunt likes to say I’m stubborn and I won’t admit this to her, but she’s right. I don’t like being hedged into something, and I sure as hell don’t like to be told what to do.”
“Noted.” I can hear the amusement in his voice. “So a witch told you where to go … why?”
“Because I’m lost.”
“Perhaps us meeting was destined then.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m lost too.”
I laugh and we take a few more steps forward. “We can be lost together.”
“I’d like that, Kansas.”
“Dorothy,” I correct.
“Right.” He smiles down at me, his green eyes reflecting the light from the nearby lamppost.
The line of his body is warm against me and his scent quickly surrounds me. I immediately find it comforting.
Everything about this man is surprising and perplexing. Like a puzzle with no picture. Just a bunch of sharp and rounded edges.
We reach the Yellow Brick Road and I situate him against the picket fence while I return the thermos to the basket and retrieve a few of the potatoes that spilled out in my rush to drop it.
“We should find somewhere safe for the night,” I say. “You don’t happen to have any memories of nearby houses, do you?”
“Houses, no, but…” He narrows his eyes and glances down the Yellow Brick Road, the way I was headed. “There might be a city that way. Or maybe I’m wrong. I can’t be sure. I just seem to remember one being there.”
“Your guess is better than mine and I’m willing to hold out hope you’re right. I could use a bed and you could really use a doctor.” Without thinking, I reach over to push aside another lock of his hair to get a better look at the cut on his forehead. “That one might need stitches.”
“You have a pretty nasty gash too.” He gestures to my forehead.
I reach for it, then remember. “Right. But I don’t think I have a concussion. You might.”
He tilts his head. The lock of hair goes rogue again. “You know a lot about wounds, Kansas?”
I step back and meet his eyes. He has no memories and yet his gaze somehow pierces through me, penetrating. Like he knows everything all at once.
“Dorothy.”
“Of course.” He tests the wound in question with a brush of his fingertips and pulls back with a sharp hiss. “You may be right. A doctor might be needed.”
“Of course I am.”
His tongue darts out, swiping at his bottom lip, leaving a wet trail that glistens. “Stubborn and confident.”
I blink and look away from his mouth, which is now smiling at me. He has a dazzling smile. A smile that makes my belly dip. “You’re teasing me.”
“No. Well … yes.”
I huff out a laugh. “Come on. We’ll walk together. Toto?”
Toto gives the man a long, lingering stare, and then trots off ahead of us.
“He’ll come around eventually,” I tell Rook.
“I’m not worried at all,” he says, and his smile widens.