Chapter 9
The Cat stared at them for several moments, waiting for one of them to speak.
Realization struck Frederick first. "Aren't you….?" He couldn't seem to complete the thought.
"Malkavese. But you can call me Malky. You saved my life, some years ago," The Cat explained. He looked Elphaba up and down and commented, "You've grown up."
She snorted and whisked herself to the back of the cave-like compartment in the bridge's understructure. She whipped the cloak from around her neck and spread it gently on the stone floor. "This is where I sleep," She stated, clearly not leaving an option for anyone else to share her space.
"If you'll recall, this was my home when you found me here three years ago," The Cat gave his rebuttal, and leapt up onto the ledge. He nearly disappeared in the shadows.
Both of them turned to Frederick, as if waiting for his thoughts on the matter.
"I have my own place, if one could call it that. I'll meet you at the tavern tomorrow. 9am," He threw over his shoulder as he shuffled out into the night. "And Fae," He called back, "let the Cat stay. It's a Cat, for Oz sakes."
And then it was quiet. Elphaba stood, staring at the Animal for some time, trying to read his thoughts. Yet he was altogether feline, and revealed nothing in his large, clear, green eyes.
He finally spoke, "You know….I lived here before you. My sleeping here has nothing to do with you, and I mean you no harm. Besides, I owe you my life."
"And what do you do with your life?" She asked, not yet at ease.
"I scavenge. I survive. I fathered a litter of kittens. All but one I lost to the ARA, and their mother, too. This world is not fit for raising children, so I keep to myself. And I do not speak. This is a rare occurrence," He explained, "I prefer to live my life in peace. If I must be thought of as a cat, so be it."
The torch of revolution flared up in Elphaba, and she screeched, "But you have every right to speak! To not speak is to surrender to their atrocities!"
"I suppose. But I am not young, and I am happy with my life. After much adversity, I have a measure of peace. I have fought my battles. I am satisfied with this much now."
"To choose to do nothing is to allow this…this sin to continue!" Elphaba threw back at him, angered and perplexed.
"Perhaps…." The Cat conceded, "but it is my choice. And I believe there are those out there better suited to fight this battle. One must choose his battles, and I do not choose this one."
Elphaba folded her arms, unconvinced.
"I'm sure" Malky continued, "that you have made choices in your life that no one could understand. Choices, perhaps, that made no sense. But the choice was yours to make."
She hesitated, struck by the fact that he had a point.
"Who are you, as you have not seen my journey, to tell me which road to take?" The Cat's tone was not angry, but contemplative as he suggested such a great truth.
Elphaba sat, a little stunned at his wisdom. She was no longer wary of this Animal, but hoped to hang on to the seed of incredible knowledge he had just planted in her. How many people had tried to force her down a path, or tried to shape her choices and direct her future? And who of those had walked a moment with her? Who had ever seen the world through the eyes of Elphaba Thropp?
Not one, She answered her own question.
She curled up on her cloak, broom in hand. As she forced herself to sleep, Malky's presence was now a comfort, a reminder that it was still possible to choose her destiny, and never apologize for it.
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Elphaba woke with the sunrise, finding Malky curled in a tight ball at her feet. He opened one eye as she uncurled herself, stretching her legs and rubbing the ache in the small of her back. She supposed that would be with her for life.
"So it's not beneath you to curl up with me like a house pet?" Elphaba asked, genuinely surprised to find him there.
"It's warmer here. It's all about survival," Malky answered.
"I need my cloak," She stated, eyeing him expectantly.
"It's not cold," He argued flatly, unwilling to uncurl himself.
"I don't need it for the cold," Elphaba shot back, her patience draining.
"So be it then," He gave in, stretching his small frame and leaping up into the shadows of the trusses.
She started to leave, then turned, "Thank you," She called back. She didn't know why she suddenly found a need for pleasantries. Perhaps it was because, in spite of herself, she wanted him to be there when she returned.
It was a long walk to the tavern, and the Cat had been right. It was not cold. It was becoming quite warm at midday, and the cloak was heavy. But it shielded her neck and face from view, and gave her a sense of protection she could not explain. She carried the broom along, refusing to leave it behind. It made her an odd sight, but she couldn't risk losing it.
The dark of the tavern was a welcome relief. Elphaba made her way to the back corner and slipped into a bench facing the wall. With its high back, she was nearly invisible from the doorway. Still, Frederick found her. He knew where to look.
He seemed especially ill at ease today. He sat down, wringing his hands and mumbling to himself.
"Frederick," Elphaba cut into his thoughts as he drummed his fingers loudly on the table, "I'm afraid it has taken you exactly one minute to be on my nerves. What is going on?"
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry….our assignment today is just…trying. I'm afraid you won't like it."
"It's not about my liking it. You know that!" She snapped.
Frederick met her gaze. "We are to stop the Bison's hanging. We are to demand he have a fair trial. The hope is that a few voices will incite the rest of the crowd to agree with our demands. They can't very well deny a crowd of hundreds what they ask for…" He attempted to explain, perhaps mostly for himself.
Elphaba looked at him for long moments before she spoke. "I can't very well demand anything. I'm dead," She took a pragmatic view.
"Do you want to remain dead to the Resistance?"
"No, but I can remain out of commission for one more day, can't I?"
"I suppose," Frederick conceded, "but what of me?"
"You make your own choice," She stated, annoyed at what seemed to be an obvious answer.
"Only you can tell me what the right choice is," He looked her straight in the eyes, and she turned away, showing him one well-defined, emerald cheekbone.
"Fae, I'm not asking for your story. I don't need to know anything except how to do the right thing. I'm asking you to help me make a choice for good, as best as we can see what is good. Or if not good, then just. Tell me how to play a part in justice. Only you can help me work for the right," Frederick nearly pleaded, and unbecoming as it was, he meant well.
Elphaba turned back to face him. She thought for a long moment, studying his eyes as she considered her response.
"No," She finally answered, "My battle, whatever it may be, is not yours to fight. You must do what is right in your eyes. You must fight for our cause to the best of your ability. The Bison has chosen his path. Let's see what Lurline or the Unnamed God, or simple fate, has in store for him."
Frederick didn't seem convinced. "That's your answer?"
"Yes," She did not hesitate, "To deter you from your cause, from our cause, would be the greatest wrong, the greater sin."
Frederick simply nodded, accepting her decision.
To her surprise, it seemed a weight was lifted. Casting Hadrick's fate onto the whim of god or nature removed a burden. Let the earth who had born him decide whether he should live or die.
They sat in quiet reverie for some time, each lost in their own musings and considerations. The sun rose in the sky to the noon position before either spoke.
"We must go, it's almost time," Frederick stood, waiting.
"I don't think a crowd of that nature is the best place for me," She argued, hiding the twinge of fear she felt.
"I need you there, in case something happens to me," He answered flatly, unwilling to elaborate on what that 'something' might be. "Come on," He nearly drug her out of the tavern and into the jarring sunlight.
"You're bringing a broom?" He raised an eyebrow when he caught sight of it in her hand.
She gave him a look that would freeze hell, and he started walking.
The walk across the city to the Ministry of Justice was both long and hot. The stones were warmed beneath their feet by the midday sun, yet Elphaba kept the cloak draped over her neck. The hat cast her face in shadows, hiding her verdigris from passerby.
When they arrived, a small crowd had already assembled. Hadrick stood on all fours, shackled to the old wooden stage-like structure that was used for criminal punishment. It had almost been torn down, as hangings, beheadings and other atrocities were nearly unheard of anymore. That is, until the Code of Order, and the Banns on Animals. Now, it was used to make examples of the innocent, to incite fear and obedience.
She and Frederick made their way to the far side of the square and slipped into a shadowy crevice.
"If anything happens to me," Frederick began earnestly, "take this to the 8th Ward post office. Leave it in box 489." He pressed a folded piece of parchment into her hand and started to leave. "Stay here," He warned her, "until it's safer."
With that he slipped into the crowd and disappeared. For a moment, she almost went after him. Screw the Bison, She wanted to say, Let him hang in spite of the Resistance. But she stopped herself. This was not about her vendetta, or gaining justice for Elphaba Thropp. This was about the greater cause, the freedom of Animals and their right to a fair trial.
It's in the hands of the Unnamed God, if he exists, She told herself as she peered out from her hiding place. She scanned the crowd, trying to guess which of them might also be members of the Resistance. It was impossible to tell.
As she peered around the stone corner of a building, a sudden burst of wind tipped her hat backward. She caught it as it started to tumble down her back.
At the moment her hat fell, their eyes met.
Across the square, Sir Peirory took in the green of her face and his mouth set in a thin line of recognition. He started toward her swiftly, and she turned to run.
The crevice where Elphaba stood offered no escape, ending only in a stone wall. She backtracked and ran down the cobblestone street away from the square. She shoved the hat back down over her face as she ran. She could hear pounding footsteps behind her, and she aimed herself away from the East Bridge, which was her one undiscovered place of safety.
Elphaba ran until her lungs ached and threatened to burst. Her side cramped and her back cried out for mercy. Her vision began to swim from the exertion. Yet the footsteps continued behind her. The tall buildings began to give way to smaller residences, and eventually dock-side shops that advertised fresh fish. She saw the boats and turned to run up an embankment, almost collapsing to her knees several times as she climbed skyward. When the grass became unfinished stone, she realized her escape route had run out. The ledge dropped off sharply, ending a couple of scores of feet below in large, uneven boulders. Water lapped at the stones, and the river stretched out before her, impassable.
Elphaba turned to face him.
Peirory stopped, his chest heaving for breath. Whatever he planned to do to her would have to wait at least a moment.
She realized in that moment that she still clutched the broom. She drew it in front of her with both hands, like a shield in battle.
His breath caught, Peirory withdrew a pistol from his sheath and aimed it toward her, cocking the trigger.
"Why?" She asked, at least wanting to understand her death, if she was to die.
"Because I can," He growled, smirking hatefully.
"Is that also why you suppress and torment Animals?" She spat, "Because you can?"
"Are you an Animal?" His question seemed rhetorical, as though he had already passed judgment on her.
Elphaba narrowed her eyes, hatred oozing from their depths.
"Those who do not submit to their superiors deserve to be punished. Animals who submit may live, as we allow them to live. Those who don't, die," He answered, if only to mock her.
"And what of me?" She couldn't help asking.
"You are used. I, and obviously many others, have all we need from you. And you are altogether too difficult to contain. You are wildly obnoxious and your rebellion has overshadowed your usefulness as a whore. You will not submit, so you do not deserve to live." Peirory spoke harshly, but without emotion. "You could have spared yourself much aggravation had you died the first time." He raised the pistol.
Something snapped within her. Elphaba had endured the shock and persistent pain of having been used. She had lived with the scars and wordlessly suffered endless nights of shame. She had lived in fear, remorse, and unspoken anger, yet this she had never felt. To be told she did not deserve to live smacked in the face of everything that helped her survive to this point. She was alive in spite of herself. She was alive because something beyond her in this crazy existence seemed to want her to keep breathing. To hear, out loud, the things she had feared and questioned about herself all her life was too much. The pain of it overtook her and built up in her until she trembled. She grit her teeth together in determination.
"You do not decide my worth," Elphaba could barely get the words out over the hard, lump of hurt that had built up in her throat.
The powerful mix of feelings seemed to flow out of her, running from her hands, through the broom and making it twitch. She gripped it tightly, lest it leap out of her hands.
Peirory moved to pull the trigger, and the broom flew at him, let loose by a force he had yet to encounter. The blow knocked the gun from his hand and sent him tumbling several feet in the air. He landed with a thud, trying to scramble to his feet.
The broom whisked itself back into Elphaba's outstretched hand, returning to her like a dog to its master.
Peirory found his footing, screaming obscenities and rustling through the shrubbery for the gun. Unable to find it, he finally turned and charged at her, howling like a rabid animal capable of knocking her backward off the steep ledge.
Elphaba clutched the broom to her chest. With nowhere to run, she willed herself away, willed herself freedom from the persistent evil that was Peirory. Suddenly, she was airborne, lifted by the broom several stories into the air. She clutched the handle, partially terrified. She had no idea if she had any control, or how she had done it. She simply hovered there, the wind billowing the cloak out around her as the sun streaked the western sky behind her.
And then, as easily as it had happened, she touched the ground. There was an eerie stillness as she realized Peirory was nowhere to be seen. Elphaba dared to glance over the rocky ledge, and caught a glimpse of a body, torn apart on the jagged rocks below. The river water was stained crimson from the blood.
She stared for long moments, not feeling any great joy, but not feeling any sense of remorse, either. She was, after all, not a murderer. Fate had seen it fit to deliver Sir Peirory to his rocky demise. And for Elphaba, it seemed as if something, someone, somewhere, had answered the question of who deserved to live.
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Elphaba stood there for quite some time, until she felt the sting of sweat on her neck from the afternoon sun. She stood, motionless, until the trembling stopped, and her breath came in a normal rhythm. In spite of herself, she felt a surge of happiness. Not at Peirory's death, for his death did not make good. Only his apology could have made good. It was the freedom of flight, the surge of adrenaline and emotion, the idea that she could take to the sky and leave behind all that she knew. Flight was a powerful skill, so powerful it had made the Birds all but exempt from the Animal banns. In the sky, riding the wind, she would not be green. She would blend into the streaking sunset, a symbol of enduring freedom for every Animal.
As her thoughts raced, Elphaba seized the broom and tried to discern what had made it fly. She gripped it tightly, held it out before her and willed it to rise. Nothing. She reached deep within herself and tried to call up that surge of power she had felt. Nothing. She threw one leg over the handle, mounting it like a horse. Nothing.
She cursed and threw it to the ground. "Infernal broom! You drain every ounce of power from me, and yet refuse to follow any command! What I'd give for just a measure of control!" She threw the statement into the sky, knowing, without admission, that its meaning was dual.
Elphaba was considering leaving the broom where it lay, when a sliver of parchment caught her eye. Dropped in the heat of the fray, it was tangled in the grass.
Frederick, She suddenly remembered.
Discovering what had caused the broom to fly would have to wait. She seized the folded paper, along with the rebellious broom, and picked her way carefully down the hill. It was far more treacherous going down, and she nearly slipped several times on the bare rock. How she had managed to scale what was now obviously a small cliff only the Unnamed God knew. She reached the docks below looking quite disheveled. She stopped to tame her hair, re-securing it in a knot, and to curse the broom a little more.
If you would fly, we wouldn't be wasting time clamoring over rocks! And we would both be significantly less disgusting! Vanity was not normally a concern of Elphaba's, but the broom seemed such a fickle, picky thing. Appearance would concern such a creature. And she'd started to think of it as a creature in its own right, with her to blame for its birth.
Despite its disobedience, she considered as she made her way back to the Ministry of Justice, it was not the broom's rebellion that immediately saddened her. It was the loss of flight. That momentary thrill had been enough to hook her. She had tasted the wind and knew she was somehow destined for it. It was everything she had hoped for, the one thing so far in her life that proved to be utterly, purely, gloriously good. Sorcery had been a second-hand skill until that moment, something she worked at out of necessity. Not anymore. If it was the one spell, or enchantment, that she ever learned, she would make the broom fly again. Someday. Somehow.
Yet today, there is the Bison, She remembered as she rounded the corner into the sun-drenched square in front of the Ministry of Justice. She stopped, and there he was. There had obviously been a commotion. Papers littered the square and members of Gale Force stood around with weapons drawn. A few onlookers remained, whispering to each other and pointing.
The Bison hung from his noose, quite dead.
The numbness surprised Elphaba, as she had expected to feel a measure of joy. Yet his death did her no great service. It did not take away the memories, nor the scars. Being avenged did not wipe from her the pain she had endured, the regret she still carried, or the losses she had suffered. In that moment, she realized that the death of an enemy does little to save the soul. Pain does not erase pain.
She stared for a long time, until a group of Gale Force soldiers caught her eye. One stepped aside momentarily, and she realized that before them lay a body. She moved closer, unable to believe the crowd had turned violent that afternoon. It was, after all, meant to be a peaceful protest, meant only to spur the crowd into action.
She caught a snatch of their conversation as she moved closer, her head ducked, "It was the right thing to do. Can't have these crazy revolutionists inciting rebellion against the Wizard. One less of 'em will be one less worry," The others snorted or cackled their agreement.
Elphaba lifted her head just slightly, and felt her stomach drop. The line of the coat. The shock of brown hair. The munchkin-like stature.
Frederick.
She backed away, stumbled away, feeling both dizzy and sick. Knowing her erratic behavior would draw attention, she sought refuge in an alley.
Frederick is dead, The words played themselves in her mind as if to make it real. Yet she found the lump in her throat was not sadness, but anger. She slammed her fists against the unforgiving stone wall and grit her teeth to keep from crying out.
While you were off running from the ghosts of your past and getting your selfish revenge, Frederick was dying for the cause your swore your life to defend! What a revolutionist you are! Elphaba knew she was irrational, but irrational came quite naturally to her.
I should have been there! She berated herself, I should have stood with the Resistance regardless of Hadrick! I should have been there…
Her thoughts trailed off. She knew her logic was skewed, but somehow it seemed that her vendetta had cost Frederick his life. The world seemed to stand still in the senselessness of it all.
She glanced down, and realized she still clutched the folded parchment in her hand. It was all she had left, and she had promised she would deliver it. She rose to her feet and began to walk. The sheer act of doing something eliminated the need for more self-berating and questioning. She walked silently, stoically, feeling utterly alone.
Elphaba reached the 8th Ward post office by sundown and found box 489. She stared at it, memorizing its bronze finish and the engraved numbers. She ran her fingers over the parchment, considering whether she should read it. It was not out of any great curiosity, but out of tribute to Frederick. What would he have wanted? She considered it a moment longer, and then slipped it into the slot, unread.
There was finality to it, and she felt empty. She pressed a hand to the cool bronze, as a tribute to the friend she hadn't wanted, yet a friend just the same.
Why? Her mind dared to wonder.
Yet there was no answer from the box, just the coolness of metal and the reflection of the sunset.