BEYOND THE RAINBOW

"Elphaba made up … a song of longing and otherness, of far aways and future days. Strangers closed their eyes to listen …. Elphaba had a good voice. It was controlled and feeling and not histrionic. He listened through to the end, and the song faded ... Later, he thought, The melody faded like a rainbow after a storm, or like winds calming down at last; and what was left was calm, and possibility, and relief."

- from Wicked by Gregory Maguire.

As the coach lumbered on its way, Erik didn't bother to open the dark green curtains that obscured his windows. He leaned back wearily, grateful that the seats were, at least, comfortably well-worn. He sank into the soothing darkness, letting his memory play out like a favourite, long-forsaken opera ...

He had been a boy when he was given his first glimpse of the bizarre land of Oz. The yellow steppes of the Vinkus looked stark and inhospitable, and the Kells mountains, imposing. Though Erik had never seen Oz, he had heard of it often while he listened to the gypsies' tales; the old conjuror woman kept strange poultices and herbs that Erik had never heard of. The gypsies had told of the oddities they had exhibited to great success many years ago ... Small green elves and mechanical people who ran by clockwork… folk of diminutive stature ... animals with the ability to speak ...

Erik studied the land and peoples with interest. Yes, as the caravan had lurched over Oz, he had seen many who looked completely human, dressed in strange clothing--similar to familiar fashions, but with asymmetrical cuts and odd colours. There were the people of smaller stock, and Erik was shocked and fascinated to see a man having a coherent conversation with a dog--er, Dog, he corrected himself.

The caravan set the fair in the Southern lands, he discerned. The air was heavy and moist; the land was ochre red. Alone as usual, Erik deftly pitched his black-curtained tent and briskly shut the drapes that served as the door. Everyone in the camp knew that it meant he wished solitude, and to disturb him was dangerous. He pondered leaving the gypsies. Perhaps, in this strange, foreign land, a boy in a mask would not be considered so bizarre … Later, just before he was due to begin his show, Erik turned around to don his magician's cloak when he heard a slight fuss just outside.

He drew back the front curtain slightly, just enough for his sharp eyes to take in the sight.

A strange-looking man had entered the camp unbidden, before the fair had open to the public. Several of the burlier gypsy men folk were approaching. Erik was about to drop the cloth back down and ignore the impending altercation when he heard the man's humble voice:

"Please, please listen ... " He held his hands up in a gesture of peace. "I am Brother Frexspar, and I come to you with the message of salvation at the hands of the Unnamed God. All of your hardship, your plight, will not be in vain if you reach for ..."

Erik fought the scornful scoff that bubbled up in his throat. The gypsies endured only the most audacious of holy men--most had reservations of fear greater than their messages of hope and goodwill.

"I am not here as a spectator," said the man earnestly. "Salvation is not impossible ... Let me show you."

And then he saw her.

The young girl trailed behind him like a leafy shadow. Looking awkward in thick leggings and boots beneath a dull homespun dress, she stared at the muddy ground sullenly, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

She was green. The hue of her skin was a remarkable contrast to the rose-coloured Quadlings, a soft, vegetable-emerald shade.

"Fabala," said Brother Frexspar gently. "Sing for me."

"Yes, Papa," she murmured softly, shutting her eyes and drawing a deep breath. She cupped her thin green hands around her mouth and hummed a low note, a carefully-distant expression settling over her face like summer storm clouds. Erik was about to turn away scornfully and ignore her, assuming her to possess a mediocre instrument, when the first line froze the blood in his veins.

Somewhere over the rainbow …

When the green-skinned girl sang, her voice seemed to shed colours, artless but infinitely lovely; a hazy, swirling profusion of life-blood crimson, autumn glow, golden saffron, emerald and peridot, sea azure, and iris violet. Erik watched her from the distance inside his tent. While the others stared at her unusual hue, he forgot it, and listened dreamily.

Way up high,

There's a land that I heard of

Once in a lullaby.

Somewhere over the rainbow,

Skies are blue;

And the dreams that you dare to dream

Really do come true.

Someday I'll wish upon a star

And wake up where the clouds are far behind me;

Where troubles melt like lemon drops,

Away above the chimney tops:

That's where you'll find me.

Somewhere over the rainbow,

Bluebirds fly;

Birds fly over the rainbow,

Why, then, oh why can't I?

If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow,

Why, then, oh why can't I?

As her last note floated translucently before fading into a heart-rending silence, she opened her eyes and stared directly into his. Startled, Erik jerked aside, concealing himself while watching.

"Very nice, Fabala," Frex said quietly to his daughter with a grave nod.

She didn't answer, only looking up at him with her liquid dark eyes, a strange expression on her face; was she exasperated or frigid or disappointed?

"Anyone, even a green child, such as my daughter, has reason to hope for the generous forgiveness of the Unnamed God. All you must do is …."

Refusing the religion so similar to Father Mansart's Catholic doctrine, and reluctant to meet the gaze of the green girl again, Erik retreated back into his tent, and busily prepared for his show that night.

He went through the motions of his routine to the impressed and amazed crowd of mixed eyes. His powers of illusion and legerdemain were becoming greater each day, and he never ceased to shock the crowd wherever they went. Even in such a fantastical setting as this, where, Erik was beginning to believe, there was real magic running about.

Erik wearily slipped the mask back over his face and turned his back to the spectators coldly. They wandered out, lost in a fog of sorrow. Good, Erik thought contemptuously. Let them; they're all the same, spineless, hateful, and greedy ….

Sensing a solitary presence left in the tent, he saw a small jade-coloured figure out of the corner of his eye.

Unable to think of anything else to say, Erik said, "You."

The strange girl blinked her sienna eyes. "Me."

She drew nearer. Now, he could see her better. By the poor lantern's illumination, her skin was mottled with pale gold light. It looked like sunlight shining through new spring leaves. Her hair was black as raven plumes, drawn back into a single tight plait. She paused, looking up at him, and he found himself curiously studying her odd face. She was not attractive; the girl was young, perhaps ten years old, but already had prominent cheekbones and a strong, angular jaw which ended in a hatchet chin, jutting forth like an icicle. Her large nose was shaped like a hawk's bill, curving and sharp.

But her eyes were an almost-chestnut hue of brown, with thick black lashes--dark and intense.

She could be beautiful, Erik found himself thinking against his will. But she isn't.

"My name is Elphaba," she said briskly.

"I am Erik."

She nodded curtly, before saying succinctly and softly, "You're displayed as a thing, too?"

"I am a magician, mademoiselle," Erik retorted, the old defensive coldness slipping into his voice quickly.

"No," she said steadily. "They don't see you as a person--to them, you're a curiosity. Just as to my father, I am a sin."

"What?"

"Did you not hear his sermon?"

"No. I ignore religion … as a rule."

In an offhand tone, she said, "If I can be saved, anyone can." She shot him a look with a lifted, bushy black brow, and he laughed behind the mask. She smiled slightly.

Just then, a pair of voices outside the tent drifted towards Erik and Elphaba; both winced at their familiarity.

"--born that way? Green as a bush!" Rough, crude, and boisterous, Javert crowed.

"Yes, she was. That colour, with the teeth of a wolf. She's outgrown those, thankfully." The voice, much gentler, was Frex's.

"If she's such a burden to your conscience, my good sir, why don't I simply take her off your hands? And you need not worry about the state of your soul anymore, nor hers."

"Take Elphaba?" There was a terrifying pause, in which Erik heard the girl breathing irregularly, her brown eyes huge. Then, Frex resumed. "No. No, I need Fabala to help tend Nessie and Shell. Since losing my Melena, it's been quite hard to rear three children; with Nanny entering her dotage. Especially dear Nessarose, my beautiful pet. Armless, you know, but bleach lovely."

"Name your price," said Javert with mounting excitement. "I have money, sir, I can pay you handsomely for the girl."

Grimly, Frex responded, "You cannot put a price on my first-born daughter. Good day, sir." A rustle of his robes and footsteps leading away.

"Goddamn holy man. Doesn't know what he's got. A green kid! And one without arms, he says? Might be worth fetching her for a gander, too. A green girl …why, I bet I could pass her off as, say, … a witch! Aye, a witch … That's good. Giver 'er a pointy hat and a broom …"

Javert's gruff voice was drawing closer. He was walking around to the front of the tent.

"Vite!" Erik hissed, grabbing her forearm and dashing out the back flap. "Vien avec moi!"

They ran from the encampment, down to the banks of the Waterslip River. Erik jumped down into the shallow water, gesturing for her to follow. "Come on."

"No." She shook her head vehemently.

"Javert will send the dogs to track us. The water will dispel the scent," Erik explained impatiently.

"No," she repeated stubbornly. With his horrid temper mounting, Erik seized her arm again, and pulled. Refusing to move, Elphaba stumbled, and a splash of the muddy water dappled onto the back of her wrist.

When she cried out in pain, Erik instantly released her. He watched in horror as the few droplets of water seemed to melt her flesh like a strong acid. But since it was only a small amount, it stopped, and left her with a painful-looking wound. Silently, he guided her back up the bank; he tore a strip from the hem of his cloak and began to wrap it slowly around her wrist, his thoughts and memories dancing in his mind.

"I'm sorry," Erik said at last, tying the bandage neatly and ripping away the excess. "Are you all right now?"

"You didn't listen to me," she snapped. Then, quietly, "Why did you bandage my arm?"

"You were injured, Mademoiselle Elphaba."

"Why not just let me bleed? My father would have. Nanny always said children should be raised to endure hardship."

Erik bowed his head, recalling with painful clarity the night of his fifth birthday. "My mother would have let me bleed, as well. Perhaps I thought you were worth saving."

Elphaba peered at him curiously. Then she said, sotto voce, "Saving a witch?"

"No, not a witch," he answered softly. "A friend."

She smiled fully then; her teeth looked very white against her thin green lips. "We are the same, aren't we?"

Erik stared down into the river. A pair of mismatched eyes, one so pale as to look like a cataract, and the other dark, in a white mask looked back. But beside him was a long, sharp face with a clear green complexion.

Resigned, Elphaba sighed. "I had better go. Nessarose gets irritable and Shell is fussy when dinner's late."

Erik stood up, and reached for her hand; but just as his skeletal fingers were about to touch her verdant ones, he stopped. Instead, he withdrew, and bowed politely.

"Good-bye, Elphaba."

"Good-bye, Erik," she murmured, giving him a final glance, then scuttled away through the tall grass. He watched her go, then trudged back toward the gypsy camp. No, he would not choose this night to run away … if a girl with green skin was a sin, a boy with the face of death would surely still be condemned to be a monster.

Night had fallen. The bonfires were lit, and the girls were out with their scarves and their full, whirling skirts. The men were about to bring the bows down on their fiddles when something new and immense neared.

The structure rolled on rickety wheels directly and fearlessly into the centre of camp. An outraged murmur immediately overtook the gypsies; who dared disturb their temporary home?

It was a clock; the hands were painted on, set to one minute before midnight. A massive mechanical construction of gears and proscenium arches, topped with a menacing, metal dragon with outspread leather wings and angry, red-jewel eyes. It was a pile of architecture, melted together, with alcoves that displayed shadowy figurines leering out at them, who seemed to move and dance of their own volition.

The gypsies cautiously crept closer to the clock wagon, but there was a great bellow, and an orange fireball emitted from the mouth of the dragon.

One of the wooden windows swung open, revealing a Dwarf with a toothy grin. " 'Evening, Ladies and Gents! You're all in for a treat tonight; some would say a classic theatrical blockbuster! Welcome, my fine folks, to the Clock of the Time Dragon!"

The show was a bizarre procession of images … It was a story no one had seen before. A pretty opera singer puppet with dark hair taken beneath the theatre by an angel …no, a man in a mask. Taken … in a boat? A frightening face in the darkness … a love song on the roof … a chandelier falling … .

The puppet singer-girl in her exquisite wedding gown put her arms around the disfigured puppet man and kissed him deeply, drawing him briefly into a tender embrace before she sought his swollen and twisted lips again.

Stricken, the disfigured puppet man released the hero-puppet from the noose and bid them to leave him alone. But, as Erik watched dizzily, the pretty singer-puppet re-entered slowly, and held out the tiny ring. Erik shut his eyes, but could not drown out the only words in the Time Dragon's presentation:

… I love you …

The bride puppet fled in tears. The puppet man, prostrate with grief, clutched the discarded wedding veil to his chest and seemed to be weeping …

Erik awoke with a start. Had he dozed off without even realising it? Lost in his own memories of Oz and Elphaba. She was roughly five years younger than himself; like he, she would be an adult now. Briefly he wondered what could have come of her; had she married?

He allowed himself a small, sad smile; in all likelihood, she had become a cranky recluse like himself.

A scant twenty minutes or so later, the green coach lurched to an abrupt stop.

"Sir?" came the driver's cheerful voice, "We have arrived."

"Over the Rainbow" Harburg/Arlen.