Chapter 21: A Time to Be Silent

They left a lot of things unspoken, as Elphaba spent hours in her new space pouring over books and tending to animals. She never outright said it, but they all understood that she had embraced a new future. Mae knew it terrified her, accepting the idea that she might never find Fiyero. However, Elphaba was becoming someone knew, or perhaps, just blossoming into the person she'd been all along. People came, even on the coldest of days, needing help with their sick, dying, or even just uncooperative, animals. As word of her skill spread, she found herself trekking out to other farms on occasion, doing the best she could as she honed her skill.

Elphaba was always quite upfront with folks about her lack of any official credentials in veterinary medicine. She had learned from Mae that there was an excellent school across the country, in Philadelphia. Mae felt certain they would accept her, if she wanted to pursue an education. However, for the moment, most of the people accepted Elphaba's help for what it was. They recognized that she had a special gift, an ability to understand and diagnose problems that were beyond the reach of most people.

So, in many ways, Elphaba's life was full. She knew she was doing something that mattered, something that made a difference in the lives of the most misunderstood creatures in this world. It was cathartic and healing, as though she was compensating for other wrongs she'd done. Still, there was a hollow place within her.

At times it seemed quite illogical, that a relationship that had encompassed perhaps four months in her life should affect her so deeply, and leave her so wounded. All rational thought told her that her time with Fiyero had been but a fancy of her youth. They hadn't even made any great commitment to one another before he had died. She'd never even known if he would have chosen her over Sarima, had he been confronted with the choice. How deep and lasting was love born in youth? Why had such a short-lived, passion-fueled relationship haunted her so deeply? Both were questions she'd begun to ask frequently. She'd even gone so far as to pose the question of whether she could love another man. Perhaps, somewhere in this new world, was someone else who could melt her heart and fill the loneliness there. It was frightening, yet it was a question she was forced to ask if she truly planned to move forward with her life. Thinking about it all often made her head hurt, as she huddled under her quilts during the dark, cold, winter nights.

At the beginning of February, Tessy and Adrian left for another trip to Boston. Adrian had more business to conduct there, and Tessy was more than happy to accompany him this time.

Mae hinted at what she thought their true motives were over dinner one night, shortly after their departure, "They have very different standards in Boston," Mae mused, "Interracial marriage is not illegal there, and certainly not as controversial…"

Elphaba had stopped eating then, feeling something between nausea and excitement in her stomach. She was happy for Tessy, she decided later. If getting married was indeed why Tessy had agreed to travel with Adrian, she hoped they would be very happy. However, it was hard, to let go of Tessy a little and let her have what Elphaba couldn't.

Sure enough, when the couple returned nearly a month later, both wore simple gold bands on their left hands. They giddily told the story of going to the courthouse to make their marriage legal as soon as they had arrived in Boston. They laughed over the story of purchasing the rings from a street vendor.

Adrian wasted no time in accepting Mae's offer that he move into the room with Tessy. The large farmhouse was certainly more comfortable than the small room he'd rented in town. Elphaba also suspected Mae was overjoyed at the way her house had suddenly become full.

Elphaba was happy for them, because she truly believed Tessy deserved her full measure of happiness.

She deserves it, she told herself, pressed down, shaken together and running over, as Mae would have said, quoting her ever-present Bible.

Still, at night when the thin walls could not muffle the sound of squeaking bedsprings and the muted sounds of contented lovers, Elphaba was overcome with emotion. She was too old for girlish embarrassment. Even shock and jealousy were beyond her at this point. She was a woman with a stark understanding of life and its pleasures and pains. What she felt was more of an ache, a deep, abiding sensation of loneliness. Born out of her mother's fiery passion and desperate need for touch, she seemed to have inherited that restless spirit that wanted someone by her side. Elphaba often cursed the feeling, wanting to be content simply with herself. Other times, she mourned the loss of her youth, not sure that she was young enough to ever find love again.

So she hung in a strange limbo between longing and contentment, between happiness and desperation. Like the frozen world around her, she was just existing, moving neither forward nor backward. It felt as though she were waiting, waiting for change, for her heart to move on, for her work to be enough.

She often wished desperately that she could throw out her memories, casting them into a great sea of forgetfulness. If she could throw out the past, she could start anew and carve out a new, less haunted life. Yet life afforded no such luxury. The cold, colorless days continued to come in succession, and Elphaba was powerless to stop them.

Across the Great Plains, Fiyero's condition hovered on the cusp of death. Dorothy could see the concern on her aunt's face as Emily cleaned bed linens and struggled desperately to force their guest to drink water. Fiyero's typically dark skin was becoming a grayish yellow, as his organs struggled to function in spite of the raging infection. His breathing was shallow and his heartbeat far too rapid.

Dorothy was awakened one morning at dawn as Emily packed a small satchel, "The doctor from the next town says there's a train that comes through Amber Plains every few weeks with peddlers from up north. There's a chance one of them might have something we ain't tried to help this man…" Emily let her voice trail off, not wanting to say what would happen if such a peddler did not exist.

Dorothy swallowed hard as she watched Uncle Henry saddle one of the horses and attach the satchel Emily handed him. They held each other in a long goodbye, knowing travel could be hard on the plains in the cold and snow of winter. With that, Henry set off, promising to return as soon as possible. With that, Emily and Dorothy were left with the task of seeing to the farm and tending to their desperately ill guest.

Dorothy finished her grandmother's diary a few days later. It ended shortly after her grandmother's mysterious lover suddenly disappeared. It was clear that she had been devastated. She wrote of returning home, pregnant and confused. Madeleine had confronted her lover with her pregnancy, and the news had been met with happy trepidation. Then, a few days later, her young man disappeared. He left no word, no letter, and had clearly never returned. It was terribly sad, Dorothy felt, knowing her grandmother had lived the rest of her life alone, raising the daughter who would become Dorothy's mother. As young as she was, Dorothy still wondered what could have made someone abandon a young woman with a child. What type of person was that, and where did he go?

She was agonizing over that question when Uncle Henry returned more than a week later. He bore with him a small satchel of bottles and powders.

"This one here is somethin' new. Supposed to clear typhoid out of the system in a few days. Can't imagine there's much truth to that, seeing what I've seen of typhoid, but something's better than nothing," Henry explained, handing each of the bottles and packets to Emily.

Yet somehow, beyond all likelihood, the tonic worked. Fiyero's fever gradually subsided and his color became closer to normal. He began to float into consciousness, seeing moving shapes above and around him as he tried to focus. Finally, one morning, he was able to clearly see the girl watching over him. It was her, the young girl named Dorothy, looking at him with wide, concerned eyes. Fiyero smiled at her, just slightly, and she looked surprised before running away.

"Aunt Em!" he heard her call, "Aunt Em! He looked at me! He's awake!"

The woman Fiyero remembered as Emily came scurrying into the room, wiping her hands on a towel. "Well I'll be…" she whispered, feeling his forehead and studying his face, "Can you hear me?" she asked.

Fiyero could only nod, swallowing over his parched throat.

"Well I'll be…" Emily continued to mutter as she fetched some water.

As Fiyero became more alert over the next several days, he noticed that Dorothy was somewhat of a fixture in his room. She often stared at him with wide, searching eyes, when she wasn't buried in a thick book.

One morning, when he'd finally been able to sit up and take a little broth, he addressed the young girl, "It must be a good book," he offered.

Dorothy looked surprised that he had spoken, and then said, "It's my grandmother's diary."

"She must have been a fascinating person," he concluded.

"She was," Dorothy did not hesitate, "her life was different than anyone else I've known. Although, I can't say I've known that many people…"

Fiyero smiled a little, at the child's logic, "What made her so different?" he asked.

Dorothy looked thoughtful for a moment, "Her name was Madeleine. She was a writer who ran away from home to chase her dreams. And to be with this man she loved. She had so many great adventures, traveling all over the country. She lived in California and Texas and even Tennessee. She wrote books that she sold to little stores across the country. I would love to read one, if I ever came across one…"

"She sounds like a very free spirit," Fiyero commented.

"I suppose," Dorothy agreed, "and she was in love. I know I'm really too young for such things, but it's obvious. I suppose I should be upset, that she wasn't married…"

Fiyero chose his words carefully, remembering he was talking to a twelve year-old, "Maybe love was enough for her. Things sometimes get more complicated when you get older. Sometimes we have to break the rules when we don't understand them. You just have to be old enough to accept the consequences, good or bad, of breaking the rules."

Dorothy studied him carefully, "Have you ever broken the rules?" she asked.

Fiyero did not answer right away. He didn't want to encourage disrespect in a child, but clearly Dorothy had lived a hard life. She seemed to be searching for confirmation that she could be more than just a farm girl for the rest of her life, more than she was looking for permission to do something wrong, "I suppose I have, when the rules were cruel or unfairly created. It's our responsibility to challenge things we see are wrong or unjust. And everyone should have a chance at happiness, no matter who they are. Clearly, your grandmother wanted something different than what life expected of her. I don't judge her for the choices she made. She obviously lived with the consequences..."

Dorothy looked thoughtful.

"What was her lover's name?" Fiyero asked, out of his own curiosity.

Dorothy flipped the pages of the book, unsure if she remembered correctly, "Um…Ozzie, she says. Short for Oscar," she finally answered.

Fiyero was turning the name over in his mind, trying to remember why it seemed significant, when Emily entered the room.

"Don't you go talking our guest into exhaustion," she ordered Dorothy, "he needs his rest to keep his recovery going."

"I don't mind," Fiyero argued softly, "it's been a while since I've spoken with anyone."

Emily smiled a little, "You gave us a might good scare. You've been here a good month now. Never saw someone fight so hard against typhoid. Suppose it really wasn't your time…"

"I'm grateful for all you've done," Fiyero added.

"I just did what any decent person should," Emily put him off, "It was Henry who rode all the way to Amber Plains to meet the train, though. Those peddlers have some pretty amazing tonics nowadays."

"Did I hear my name?" Henry asked, coming into the room then.

"I was just thanking Emily for all you've done," Fiyero said again.

"Well, can't have someone die on my watch in my house, if I can help it. Although I've got to say, that tonic must've been some miracle. Never seen anyone survive typhoid that bad before. That gypsy woman swore it was some newfangled thing from back east, discovered in one of those fancy schools of medicine."

"I'm certainly glad for it," Fiyero said.

"I've got to admit," Henry continued, "I thought she was out of her mind when I met with her, thought I might be wasting my hard-earned money. Especially when she swore up and down she'd peddled her merchandise to a green woman earlier that day. Sounded like one of Dorothy's tall tales. She kept going on and on about this woman. 'Green as fresh grass' she kept saying."

Fiyero felt his body freeze, and swore his heart skipped a beat. His eyes met Dorothy's, and he saw her eyes widen in shock and recognition.

Elphaba.

He had never wanted to run so fast and so hard in his entire life. He desperately wanted to cast off the vestiges of illness, along with the blankets. He wanted to run to his Fae and shed the last fourteen years. Still, his recovery remained before him. He couldn't very well go riding off to Amber Plains until he could at least stand up. So he focused on recovery, working one day at a time, and focusing on the name of his new destination.

Amber Plains, Fiyero told himself over and over, cementing the location into his mind like coordinates for a mission. This time, he was determined to succeed, or die trying.