Dorothy Must Die

Chapter Six

“Now, can you tell me what was going on back there?” I asked when we were back on our way.

“She’s magic mining,” Indigo explained, with the tone of someone explaining why the sky is blue to a toddler for the five hundredth time.

I half understood. Maybe. “Magic mining? But she’s a witch. Doesn’t she already have magic?”

Indigo gave a loud, angry snort. “It’s never enough. Never enough for her, and sure as hell never enough for Dorothy. They’re digging holes from here to the capital and sucking it right up out of the land. Why do you think all of Munchkin Country’s such a dump? Oz needs magic to survive. Without it, it just dries up.”

“So magic is like—in the ground?”

I thought of the dark, gaping pit that had swallowed my trailer. Was that one of Glinda’s excavation sites? If so, Greenpeace would have a few bones to pick with the Witch of the South if they ever made it to Oz.

“Yup.” Indigo nodded. “Well, it’s everywhere, but it starts in the ground and seeps out from there. Dig it all up and take it for your royal self, though? No more magic. The end; unhappily ever after.”

I’d never thought of myself as someone who was slow on the uptake, but this was all very confusing.

“Okay,” I said eventually. “Back up. You keep talking about Dorothy like she’s still here. But she went back to Kansas. That’s, like, the whole point of the story. There’s no place like home and all that.”

Really, it was the one part of The Wizard of Oz that I’d never liked. Girl gets whisked away to fairyland and all she can think about is going home? Sure, she missed her auntie Em. But you’d think her aunt would be happy for her to have gotten out of Kansas. Personally, I’d always thought Dorothy should have knocked her heels together and wished for something better than a trip back to Nowheresville.

“You only heard half the story. She did go home,” Indigo said. “Turns out home wasn’t so great after all. So Glinda brought her back here. Or, at least, most people think it was Glinda who brought her back. That’s like, how the legend goes. One way or another, when Dorothy got here, that’s when the problems all started.”

“What do you mean?”

Indigo shrugged and waved her hand over the landscape. “See for yourself. She was okay at first—I guess—but then they gave her a crown and made her a princess. And somewhere along the way she got a taste for magic. Pretty soon nothing was enough for her. The more she got, the more she wanted.”

“So the magic made her go off the deep end and start digging pits? Why is Glinda even helping her?”

“Think of it this way,” Indigo said. “You’ve got your Witch of the East. Dorothy crushes her with a house. The Witch of the West—Dorothy melts her with a bucket of water. Glinda’s the Witch of the South. Notice that she’s the one who’s still standing? Glinda knows what’s good for her. She knows that the worst thing you can do around here is get in Dorothy’s way.”

“What about North?” I asked.

Indigo gave me a puzzled look.

“East, West, South,” I said. “What about the Witch of the North?” I asked.

Indigo just looked away. “You ask too many questions,” she said.

The world had been changing color while we’d talked. The closer we got to the Emerald City and away from Glinda and her machine, the more the chilly blue glow of the sky melted into something sunnier and pleasant. The grass grew greener and thicker on the ground, too, and every now and then I noticed a few crocuses poking their heads out of the earth.

I wasn’t positive, but as I listened carefully I was pretty sure I even heard some birds singing a tentative song. On the other hand, maybe it was just the residual sound of the drill ringing in my ears.

“Why do the Munchkins cooperate?” I asked. “If it’s ruining their home, it seems like they wouldn’t go along with it.”

Indigo leveled me with a cool stare.

“How about you stop asking about things you’ll never understand,” she said. “We’re going to get you to the Emerald City and you’re going to find some nice witch who will know how to send you right back to Kansas where you and your pink hair belong.”

After that, we walked in silence. Every time I tried to find another avenue for conversation, she shot me right down.

I thought about what she’d said about Dorothy. The explanation that she’d given me was barely any explanation at all: it was one thing to believe that Oz had been corrupted by someone truly evil, but Dorothy had been good once. She had fought the Wicked Witch of the West and freed Oz. How had things gone so wrong for her?

Suddenly my mother’s face flashed into my head, and I remembered what it had been like for her.

It hadn’t happened overnight. She’d been in a lot of pain after the car accident, and at first the pills just made her happy again. In some ways, it was happier than I’d seen her since my dad had left and we’d sold the house. Which made me happy, too.

It always wore off, though, and then it started wearing off faster and faster. She always wanted more. When she got more, she wanted more than that. And that was the end of life as we knew it. Every time I came home to find her sprawled out on the couch, or on the floor, the orange bottle still in her hands, I found myself amazed that something so tiny could hold so much power over her.

If what Indigo said was true, Dorothy had gotten a taste of magic, and when it was gone, it had left her hollow. How much magic did she have now?

It wasn’t a question worth asking. To someone like her, or someone like my mom, it wasn’t a matter of how much she had. It was how much she didn’t have.

All of this was making me wonder where my mom was. I hoped she was okay.

It felt like we’d been walking for hours. My feet were shooting with pain but the sun showed no signs of waning. Although our surroundings had brightened up considerably, it was monotonous and unchanging. The novelty was wearing off. I was too bored to even be creeped out anymore.

I kept waiting to come across a unicorn or a talking scarecrow or a river of lemonade, or some other magical Oz thing. I would have settled for a regular tree or a river made out of water. Or even, maybe, a monster.

So far, there was nothing.

“I have to sit,” I said finally. Indigo twisted her lips and then nodded.

“Fine,” she said, plopping herself down onto a rock by the side of the road. I sat down next to her. I took Star off my shoulder and placed her on the ground, and she took the opportunity to scamper away into a patch of weeds. I knew she’d be back.

“How far is the city?” I asked. “We’ve been walking forever.”

“Dunno,” Indigo said. “I’ve never been.”

So we sat in silence. I wished I could pull my phone out just to have something to do, but my phone, along with everything else I’d ever owned, was at the bottom of the pit. If the pit even had a bottom. Instead, I found myself studying the Munchkin’s tattooed arms, trying to untangle the elaborate, inky swirls that were etched into them, but it was weird—the more I stared at the designs, the more they seemed to be a blur. It was like they didn’t want me to understand them; like they were hiding their true meaning from me.

Indigo noticed me staring, and she rolled up her T-shirt sleeves to let me take a better look. “It’s Oz. The real Oz,” she said. “I wanted to remember how it used to be. So I got it inked. They’ll have to skin me if they want me to forget now.”

As she spoke, the tattoos began to form themselves into a picture before my eyes and I saw what she was talking about: her arms were a history. It was a beautiful, picturesque panorama, filled with flowers and animals—some of which I didn’t even recognize—and happy, smiling people. The craziest part was that the picture was moving. Just barely, but moving for sure. The Munchkins on Indigo’s biceps were dancing a jig. The animals were frolicking; the flowers were rustling in the breeze. There was even a witch, green and wicked with a pointy black hat, cheerfully dancing something like a hula.

“Magic ink,” she said. “Cool, right?” She said it like it was no big deal, like she was talking about the new shoes she’d just bought at the outlet mall. She waved her hand in the air, gesturing at the landscape around us. “It’s better here since we’re farther away from the mines, but nothing’s what it used to be. It’ll just be one big pit soon.”

She looked so sad. It was the worst kind of sad, too—the kind where you’re sad about something that you know will never change. The kind of sad you can’t even bother getting angry about anymore.

Did all of Oz feel this way? If so, it must be a terrible place to live.

I stood up and brushed myself off. “Come on,” I said. “We’re going to the Emerald City.”

Indigo stared up at the sky like she was looking for a clue. I was beginning to wonder when the sun was going to go down. The sky was just as light as it had been when we’d started walking. It didn’t even feel like it was the same day, much less the same afternoon.

“I don’t know,” she said after a while of just looking. It sounded more like she was talking to herself than to me. “I don’t actually really know anything. I don’t even really know why I want to go. We’ll probably get caught before we make it there anyway. She has spies everywhere.” She sighed a long sigh. But she followed me back onto the road.

“You asked why they work for her,” she said. “You asked why the Munchkins don’t just tell Glinda to fuck off and take her machine somewhere else.”

“Yeah. I was wondering that. Maybe it was stupid of me.”

“It was,” Indigo said, shooting me an annoyed look. “Do you think they have a choice? I was one of those kids bouncing up and down on a seesaw for hours, you know. But I got away. Now my family’s gone, my house is empty, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with myself. If I get caught, they’ll kill me. So. That’s why they do it, okay?”

“I didn’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry.” And I was.

“When we get to the Emerald City, we’re going to find someone to send you home. And when we do, they’re going to send me along with you. Anything’s better than this.”

She saw it before I did.

“What the hell?” she said, stopping dead in her tracks in the middle of the road.

Ahead of us, we heard a screechy, unearthly caterwaul. Star squealed in response. I sped up to see what was going on. Then I wished I hadn’t seen it at all.

A few paces off, something was tied to a post at the edge of the road. The something was furry. It screeched again.

“One of the monkeys,” Indigo said, almost in a whisper. The creature was dangling upside down from the post, a thick rope binding his ankles in place. This wasn’t your normal monkey, though: he was dressed like a little preppy in khaki pants with jaunty red suspenders and leather Top-Siders on his feet.

Despite his outfit, he looked a long way from Nantucket. He appeared to be in so much pain: his eyes were half closed, blood-crusted, and unfocused. His mouth was dry and cracked; his fur was dirty and matted. He didn’t look at us—I was pretty sure he couldn’t even tell we were there.

But he was conscious enough to express his anguish, and he let out yet another earsplitting scream. Indigo raced forward and when I caught up with her, she was kneeling, reading a sign that was nailed just below where the monkey’s head swayed inches from the ground.

For the Crime of Sass, This Monkey Is Hereby Sentenced to Official Attitude Adjustment. Do Not Tamper. By Royal Order of Princess Dorothy.

“The crime of sass?” I whispered angrily. They’d made that a crime?

Indigo seemed paralyzed. She didn’t respond.

Well, at least I was here to help him. “Poor little monkey,” I said. “Let’s get you down from there.” I made a move to untie him, but Indigo grabbed my wrist. She was almost shaking.

“No,” she said. “We can’t.”

“What are you talking about? You can’t just leave a defenseless animal tied up by the side of the road. Look at him. I’m surprised he’s still alive. And what the hell? This is what she calls an attitude adjustment? What’s wrong with this place?”

Indigo shook her head sadly. “We have to leave him. If we don’t, we’ll be considered just as guilty as he is. I’ve seen it before.” She looked up at me with tears in her eyes, and I somehow understood that this had already happened to someone she loved. “Welcome to Oz,” she said. Her voice caught, and then she stood and dusted herself off. Her face, which had just a moment ago looked close to crumpling, hardened back into her typical scowl.

“Come on. Let’s keep moving. Forget we even saw it.”

I shook my head at her. It was wearing pants. It had dried blood all over it. It was in eardrum-busting pain.

“You saved me from talking to Glinda.”

“That was different. You hadn’t been convicted of anything.”

I looked at her and then back at the monkey. I couldn’t leave him. There was just no way. So without hesitating—without thinking, really—I reached up and began to untie the ropes that held him to the post.

“No!” Indigo cried. But she didn’t try to stop me. Within seconds I’d gotten him free. I caught him in my arms—he was heavier than he looked—and as I laid him carefully down on the yellow bricks, I felt two rough, bald little stumps on his shoulder blades.

It took me a second to realize what they were, and when I did, I felt sick to my stomach. This monkey had once had wings.

“Shit,” Indigo said, running her fingers through her hair in panic. “Shit, shit, shit shit.” She had scampered to the middle of the road and was looking up and down in either direction like she thought they would be coming for us at any moment. But no alarm bells started ringing. No gunshots rang out; no flare was sent up. Nothing happened at all.

“What do you think is coming?”

“You don’t understand. They have their ways. They know everything. They see everything.”

“How? Who?”

“They just do.”

“If they knew everything that went on around here, they’d have already caught us. Come on—you must have some water somewhere in that giant pack of yours, right?”

Reluctantly, Indigo dug around in her bag and came back with a canteen. She handed it to me, and I poured the water over the animal’s cracked lips and waited. After a moment, his eyes fluttered open. He gurgled and sputtered for a moment before registering our presence.

“There you are . . . ,” I said, leaning over to give him another sip.

“Thank you,” he said in a weak, hoarse voice.

“Oh my God!” I exclaimed, jumping back. “He can talk!”

“Of course I can talk,” he croaked. Even in his weakened state, he managed to sound offended. “I’m an educated monkey. My name is Ollie.”

Although I was still freaked out, I bent down to help him sit up. My fingers brushed against the jagged, stumpy nubbins poking out of his shoulder blades.

“Don’t mind those,” he explained, seeing the look of confusion on my face. “That’s just where my wings used to be. Before I cut them off.”