"She was castrated at birth," replied the Tin Woodman calmly. "She was born hermaphroditic, or maybe entirely male."
"Oh you, you see castration everywhere you look," said the Lion.
"I'm only repeating what folks say," said the Tin Woodman.
(Wicked, Gregory Maguire.)
One idle midwife gossiping to an avid audience and suddenly the Wicked Witch of the West was male.
It amused the Witch, as much as gossip usually irritated. It was one more thing to scratch a sensitive skin.
Of the two who could answer, one was dead and one was socializing. One was dead in the physical, putrefaction sense, and the other merely dead inside, with eyes that reminded one of a frozen lake.
Three, who could answer, strictly speaking. The witch cackled. I wonder, I wonder, will the next person I am unfortunate enough to stumble across dare ask to peek under my skirts?
It was not funny, but the witch laughed anyway. She laughed long and loud, flying over the countryside around Kiamo Ko, searching for the little farm girl who was to be her…guest? Assassin?
Ah, there .A fat-legged farm girl with black pigtails. A straw man, a man of tin, and a Cat. A Lion.
The witch debated landing, but really her guests were still many days off. A little girl can't walk far or fast, and the straw man constantly needed to repad his legs after encounters with nesting sparrows. Even a Horse at full gallop would only just outpace the broom, and even then, for minutes or less.
The witch snarled. Her train of thought, erratic as it was, was worsened by listening to the idle gossip of this group of misfits. The straw man had been quiet- why? Dorothy had been quiet- why? The witch didn't know if she was seeing coincidence or conspiracy.
But they did not know her, not really. They spoke only the wild and wilder rumors that sprung up every time she was spotted hovering a mile above the Emerald City.
A dead Prince, buried in an unmarked grave somewhere knew her, knew how to sort fact from fancy. A society madam in a pink ball gown also knew her, knew every bump and scar and frown.
But the witch refused to remember. Refused to know. Refused to glance down at the Yellow Brick Road, where once a carriage containing two young girls had idled towards the City. Refused to glance west, where the far off glint of emerald green marked the end of all that.
She ducked her head and sent the broom racing along the ground, the cold rush of air like a bucket of water to the face.