Chapter Seventeen. Dorothy
SEVENTEEN
Dorothy
The cornfield eventually ends and where it ends, woods begin and I immediately miss the comfort of the crop fields. Corn I understand, woods I do not. And in a place like this, it seems twice as likely that something terrifying could reside among the trees.
I’m not about to admit it, but I’m grateful for Rook. Having another person to occupy my thoughts and to join in on conversation is enough to distract the anxiety and my wild imagination.
I don’t want to think about what kind of monsters might live in the dark Oz woods.
Instead I want to learn everything there is to learn about the handsome scarecrow.
He leans on me as we walk, but I suspect he’s holding his weight back to not overwhelm me. Still the warmth of his nearness is a welcome gift and I keep my arm firmly around his waist.
I very much do not want to notice the hard muscle beneath his jacket.
But I do.
As we walk, he asks me questions.
“What is your home like?”
Toto trots ahead to chase a firefly.
“Not too far, Toto!” To Rook, I say, “Kansas is quiet and beautiful in its own way, but it’s landlocked. Farmland as far as the eye can see. I suppose that’s good if you enjoy farming.”
“And you don’t?”
I think of Edward and the life he’s promised me—having our own farm, a family. Do I owe it to him and myself to try to enjoy it?
“No.” The word comes out too quickly. “I mean, Kansas is home and I like home.”
“But not farming.”
“What about you?” I ask, changing the subject. “I don’t mean to pry, but I noticed you don’t have callused hands. Your nails are trimmed neatly. You must do something other than hard manual labor.”
He holds his right hand out in front of us. There are no distinguishing marks on him. No tattoos. No scars.
“You’re observant, Kansas.”
I start to correct him on my name again, but decide I don’t mind the nickname.
“Callused hands are familiar, is all.”
“How so?”
I get another flash of Edward and his rough hands on my bare thighs.
“Farms,” we say in unison, and then I laugh and he smiles and butterflies fill my stomach.
We continue walking and talking.
I tell him about Em and Henry but I find myself skirting around the topic of Edward.
What would I call him? We are more than friends, but we’ve never gone so far as to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend.
Was it just last night that he proposed to me? It seems like a month ago.
“Do you have friends here?” I ask Rook as the Yellow Brick Road curves away from a grove of trees that shine silver in the lamppost light.
“I’m not sure,” he answers. “But I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“I was tied to a post. If I had friends, surely they would have saved me.”
He delivers this statement with no emotion, but the thought makes my eyes burn.
“Maybe they didn’t know where you were.”
“Maybe,” he admits. “Where did you meet your furry friend?”
“My dog?”
Rook looks down at me. “Is that what you call him?”
“Yes? That’s what he is.”
“Mmm,” he says, and then, “Where did you get him?”
“He just showed up at the farm one day.”
“Which day?”
“I don’t remember.”
“We have that in common.”
“I suppose we do.”
“He’s protective of you,” Rook observes when Toto stops to look back, checking on my progress.
“We’re protective of one another.”
“True friends, then.”
“Yes.”
Toto wags his tail when we catch up and falls in step beside me.
When we come around another bend in the brick road, the trees start to thin and up ahead, I spot a bloom of light in the otherwise dark night.
“The city,” Rook says. We’re in a spot of darkness between lampposts, but I can hear the relief in his voice.
“Thank god. I was beginning to think we were going to spend the night in the forest. Do you think they’ll have a spare bed? What do you use for money here?”
Our steps quicken now that a destination is within sight.
“Piats are gold coins,” Rook explains. “The highest bit of currency. Cuts are silver. Brons are copper. The lowest currency. And then when none of that will do, I suspect a bit of bread or fruit would suffice.”
“So you know the currency but not how you make it?”
“If you had to guess my vocation, what would it be?”
“Hmmm. Let’s see.” I make a show of analyzing him as we walk, and the smirk on his face lights up his green eyes. “Maybe a merchant? Your clothes are nice. You could be a tailor.”
“Why would a tailor be beaten and tied to a pole?”
The way he says this, with distance, it’s almost like it happened to some other person and not him. He’s taking it well, all things considered. Is there freedom in having no memories? No guilt, no remorse, no regrets?
“It does make more sense for you to be a merchant. Maybe a business deal gone wrong?”
Rook shrugs. “Perhaps.”
The city grows closer and the closer we get to it, the clearer it becomes, and I realize it’s surrounded by a wall at least twenty feet high.
That seems … odd.
I can just make out the silhouettes of several guards at the entrance, swords strapped to their hips.
They haven’t noticed us yet.
“Is this normal for Oz?” I ask Rook. “To wall off a city and put guards around it?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Should we…”
“Hello there!” Rook calls.
“What are you doing?”
“Making friends,” he answers.
“They have weapons.”
“And I have charm.” He flashes me his smile. “And you have a … dog.”
The guards come to attention, four of them in total.
“Who goes there?” one shouts.
Rook and I shuffle into the light cast by iron torches set into the city’s wall. “Hello.” I readjust my weight, trying to keep Rook upright. “I’m Dorothy and this is—”
“Dorothy?” the woman on the left says.
The man next to her whispers in her ear.
The tallest man, the one on the right, turns to the others and says, “The great sorceress Aakin told us about!”
“Aakin is here?” I ask.
The fourth guard, a woman with a braid of curly hair, says, “You have liberated us from the cruel and unforgiving Witch of the East, O Great Sorceress!”
Rook turns to me. “You didn’t tell me you were a sorceress.”
“I’m not.”
“All hail Dorothy, the great sorceress!” the guards say in unison and then fall swiftly to their knees, hands flat on the ground. “Thank you for freeing us!”
Rook regards me with new interest, his bright green eyes glinting. “Stubborn. Confident. And yet humble? You’re clearly someone of great importance.”
“I’m not, I swear it.”
Toto barks at the guards.
The guards, realizing he’s there, scurry to their feet and draw their swords, screeching like they’ve seen a ghost.
I slip out from beneath Rook and scoop Toto into my arms. “He’s harmless. He’s just a dog!”
The mustached man swallows hard, but some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
“I promise he won’t harm you.”
Rook limps in front of me. “Would you be so kind as to let us into your great city? We are road-weary travelers looking for a place to rest. Food, drink, and perhaps a doctor?”
A silent conversation passes between the guards.
I send up a prayer to whatever gods might inhabit this land. I’m exhausted, cold, and starving. Please, please give me a warm, comfy bed.
The woman whispers into the ear of the mustached man. He listens intently, then nods.
Finally, “It would be our honor to host the great sorceress and her friend. But is the … dog … tame?”
He says dog with a long O, like he’s never heard the word a single day in his life.
“Yes. He’ll behave. Won’t you, Toto?” Toto growls in my arms as if to contradict me, and I cover his muzzle with my hand, urging him to keep quiet. If his Napoleon complex gets us thrown out of this city, I’ll never forgive him.
The woman removes a key from a chain around her neck.
In her hands, it seems to double in size, the jagged end longer than her longest finger.
Embedded in the stone wall to the left of the gate is an alcove just big enough for the woman to reach her hand inside.
She must hit a button or lever, because a second later, a hidden door pops open, revealing a lock.
“Permission to open!” the mustached man calls.
“Permission granted,” a voice shouts back from the other side.
The woman inserts the key into the lock, then gives it a hard turn. Gears clank to life and the gate cracks open, bright golden light spilling out into the night.
“Welcome to Glimming Hollow,” the guard says.