"And goodness knows, the wicked lives are lonely. Goodness knows the wicked die alone. It just shows when your wicked you're left only, what you've sewn."
"Good news!"
"She's dead!"
"The wicked witch of the west is dead!"
The excited whispers filled the emerald streets of the emerald city. People gathered on the green sidewalks, clustered in front of the comfort of the buildings where they had remained hidden for so long. The fear that had once gripped the city unmercifully had suddenly been released, leaving the Ozians dazed with confusion and blinking in the bright sunlight.
Most remained, still hidden; they were the ones who refused to believe in the miracle until the good Wizard announced the happy news himself.
"How did it happen?"
"Is there any body?"
Could it be true? Was the dreaded green lady dead? The awful witch who's very stare could freeze your heart and who's skin color, a shade of green that no Ozian would be bold enough to call emerald as to shame the wonderful Wizard, was the shade of grime, of cabbage, the one who ordered her pets to fetch the children was really, truly dead? Absurd, some said, though they too were curious.
A group stood in the streets, the first voices. They held pitchforks and torches, wearing expressions as harsh as ones who had been to war. So slowly they had walked into the city, eyes pointed straight, and hadn't their mouths been set in such a grave line? Heads peeked out fearfully, fearful of what they had brought back. They had walked into the center of the street, not saying, not moving. Their clothes were unmarked, not one spot of blood. Hundreds of frightened eyes turned on them, waiting, needing to know…
Dead. A witch hunter said flatly.
Dead?
Dead?
Dead!
They had come out of hiding, this new found freedom seemed too wonderful t comprehend. There had been no shouts of happiness, no laughter of relief, just the dead silence of those frightened, of those who had been faced with the very devil-in green skin.
"How?" "What happened?" "Where is the body?"
A million questions, hysterical and curious. A few people were even sobbing.
A young man stepped forward, creating a lovely racket as he did so. One might have thought he had dressed in a suit of armor for the fight, not knowing it was now his permanent skin. His voice was young, shaking with the events of the past hour. He seemed to be in charge.
"There is no body," He told them gravely, a hatchet was gripped tightly in his hand, unused. He acted bold, but was clearly shaken up. He had never seen death of one so evil. "She was gone, melted! Death by water!"
"Death by water?" "What, what does this mean?"
The tin man held up a hand to silence them. "A bucket of water was thrown on her. She screamed so loudly, then there was a great cloud of smoke and only her hat was left!"
"H-how do we know she isn't still alive?" A frightened man spoke p with a red face.
There was a chorus of agreement.
"People, please. Take it from us, she is dead!"
"Not until the Wizard has said so!" A mother said.
The man next to her turned impatiently. "They saw it themselves. What more proof do you need?" He asked her sharply.
"Please," The tin man spoke up. "This is a happy occasion. We should be happy! The wickedest witch there ever was is gone! Vanished! This is good news!"
Out of the crowd came a tinkle of light hearted laughter. Every person in the crowd's face lit up with delight, turning their head's to see where it came from. A bubble drifted from behind the green buildings, its exterior glinted off prisms across the crowd as it hit the sunlight. The bubble was surrounded with sparkles, giving it a jeweled aura. The bubble held a woman.
"Look, its Glinda!" Someone called out excitedly.
The woman in the bubble smiled, her white teeth reflecting the sunlight. She wore a full length sky blue gowned that held thousands of sequins and off the shoulders short sleeves that accentuated her figure. Amidst her golden curls that framed her beautiful face sat a crown, jeweled and shined, fit for a princess. In her left gloved hand she grasped a wand as tall as herself. Every Ozian looked up at her in awe. She smiled down at them like a mother, though she was far too young to be. The smile lit up her beautiful face; it made her blue eyes shine like jewels. Everyone returned her smile with adoration. They loved her whole heartedly; they trusted her as much as they trusted the Wizard.
"Fellow Ozians," Her voice was sweet and musical. "Let us be glad."
Such a statement caused a stir.
"Glinda," A crowd member cried out. "Is it true? Is she dead?"
Glinda's face became grave, her gaze professional. The gaze she gave them all made them shiver with anticipation.
"There have been," She said. "Some rumors going around concerning El-The Wicked Witch. As you all know, the Wizard has gone away very suddenly for reasons unknown, this leaves me here for the time being. According to the Dragon Clock, it happened at the thirteenth hour by a bucket of water thrown from a young girl. Yes…the Wicked Witch of the West is dead!"
There was a great uproar.
Mothers hugged their young happily, tears streaming from their sleep deprived eyes. Men whooped happily, throwing up their hats and young children danced in the street.
"No one mourns the wicked!" Someone announced.
"No one cries," The hysterical mother shouted. "They won't return!" There was clapping.
Glinda witnessed this happy scene from above like an angel. That is what she was to the good Ozians, their guardian angel. "And," She called down, gripping her wand a bit tighter. "goodness knows the wicked lives are lonely. They breath the air of their own sins, they taint their own lives, and goodness knows no one can help them once they have created damage. Once wicked, always wicked. It is the wicked who lose, it is the wicked who fall, it is the wicked," Her breath caught a second. "that we bring down. This just shows," She continued, looking down at everyone. "when your wicked, you're left only, what you have sewn."
There was a chorus of agreement. A few tears were shed for this touching speech.
"Goodness, bless you Ms. Glinda." The tin man cried out.
Glinda smiled faintly. She didn't seem as happy as the others though, but very few notice. If they had looked closely enough, they would have seen a princess who had matured much too quickly into a queen. That her face was set grim, as though seeing something horrible. One might have even noticed her shed a tear or too. If they had, they wouldn't have understood. How could one cry so gallantly for one so wicked? It made no sense.
Below her, the celebration of the century was underway. There was sure to be eating and drinking, many conversations. They were all still too scared, too scared of what they didn't understand. They had lived so long in the comfort of one who acted out as a protective father toward them, tried to protect them. They didn't want to stop being babied. So there were no questions of what became of the Wizard, of the body of the witch, and no one took a moment to ask Glinda why she was crying.
"Truly," A man slurred. "It is over. It shall all be well now."
There were heads that nodded in agreement.
"No one mourns the wicked." He said quietly.
"No one mourns the wicked." The crowd repeated simultaneously, then louder. "No one mourns the wicked!"
"No one mourns the wicked!"
"No one mourns the wicked!"
"No one mourns the wicked!"