Oz was in an uproar of both excitement and rage.
News had spread like fire of the accident and how the Witch was now staying at Nest Hardings General Hospital. Nest Hardings was not at all pleased for there was talk everywhere of new security measures in homes, schools and office buildings as if the Witch were likely to show up any time and wreak havoc although it was difficult to see how this was possible with her injuries. The papers were like daily reports of the Witch's wicked talents of corruption. If there was a failed business or if stocks decreased or if a child grew ill, it was all due to the Witch.
I tried to imagine her.
She's on a hospital cot with white sheets in nice looking room – like a hotel room with hardwood flooring, a small, stainless steel table by her bed bearing a plastic cup of water and a lit lamp, its reflection casting a pleasant, melon light over the bed and fading outward into blackness. The Witch is half sitting up, leaning on a bunch of pillows with her hands crossed behind her head and with her knees bent in a carefree looking manner. She is tired but comfortable.
I can't seem to picture her without her hat - the universal symbol of a Witch; the black cone shaped hat. Without it, they no longer play the part in my mind.
She has her hat tucked down to block out the light from the lamp, casting a black shadow over her face, her nose poking out into the light like a fungus. She is muttering unintelligible long distance spells, her voice barely audible and husky with sleepiness….
"Becky?" said Dorothy sitting at the foot of the bed. We were staying at a hotel while my car was being cleaned by biohazard disposal people which Scarecrow was paying for. He had been a farmhand as well as a Scarecrow.
"Yeah?"
"D' you think the Witch is alright?"
There were a number of ways I could have answered.
"D' you think the Witch is alright?"
"No."
Or.
"D' you think the Witch is alright?"
"If she's alright, she would have come after us already."
It was actually quite scary knowing that. I had no way knowing when the Witch would gather enough strength to seek vengeance…which is inevitable. I felt a shiver run through my spine. This thought had been running through my mind for the past two weeks now, managing to frighten my out of getting a decent sleep or walking the streets in the evening. Every set of footsteps of a Munchkin walking up behind me became the Witch rushing in to grab me, every creak or tap of the walls expanding became the Witch's magic and every time I got up out of bed at night, I couldn't help but to imagine the Witch jumping out of the bathroom or appearing at the window, her face pale, her not damaged eye staring at me, lacking the human understanding and aliveness - just a dead, conceptual eyeball looking at me, the whites glinting in the moonlight and making a scarily bold contrast against her green face…like she died and became a zombie or something.
I wasn't sure if my fears were completely ridiculous for everyone seemed to be on their toes.
But then again, it would be a relief in a way to know that she's alright. I could never forgive myself if she died or ended up terribly scarred in some way….. is that even possible for a Witch?
"So d' you think she's alright?" asked Dorothy.
I paused to think, subconsciously bringing my hand up to cover my mouth. I stayed like that for a moment, in a pose of speculation then flicked my eyes over to Dorothy and shrugged, unable to decide how to respond in a way that wouldn't freak her out.
"Gosh, you're carefree." she said.
At that moment, the door opened and Scarecrow walked in. Scarecrow was a mystery to me – full of contradictions. There was usually a kind of sullen air to him - the formality in his speech, the reservation and calmness that seemed to radiate off him…but then he'd suddenly lighten up and crack a joke or tease us, grinning and exposing his shiny teeth that were actually white and not bits of wood like I imagined.
He strode into the room and greeted Dorothy and I with a nod before settling on a chair by the window. He pulled out a rolled up newspaper from within his jacket and began to scan its pages, reading the headlines.
He looked kind of funny like this. His scarecrow cloths had to be discarded as the blood stains could not be washed out and he was now dressed in dark, bluish blackish trousers made from a slightly softer material than jeans, a white collared shirt, and a black jacket/blazer thing which he got at a jumble sale. But the funny thing was that he was able to keep his hat which made him look like parody of a scarecrow.
Dorothy and I exchanged glances for no particular reason and lay back down on the bed. It was amazing how boring it could get here. I mean this is a foreign, fairy tale world I'm stuck in! You'd think that would be exiting…but then again, this is the suburbs.
"There's a protest at the hospital." said Scarecrow, breaking the silence. Dorothy and I immediately perked up at the prospect of something entertaining. "Want to take a look?"
A protest! I thought. Look at all the commotion I'm causing.
"Oh I'd like to go." said Dorothy "May we?"
"Alright then." said Scarecrow smiling slightly and reached into the bag he was carrying. "I got you and Becky these hats. I thought it might help to disguise ourselves a bit." So I'm not the only one that's bored.
"Oh yeah, thanks."
We had been getting a lot of media attention ever since we got here, especially since we had Scarecrow with us. He seemed to be quite well known around here, with him being a living Scarecrow and all that. Reporters with hugest the microphones would constantly pop up out of nowhere, demanded details on how the Scarecrow and his crew defeated the Wicked Witch, how we feel about her being treated after we supposedly worked to kill her, and most of all about how my car stereo system works. It was annoying as hell. One reporter would show up then the next thing I know, I'd be surrounded and I'm terrible at public speaking. The first time I was approached, I stuttered the whole way and the second time I had to yell at them to piss off. I honestly didn't want to talk about it.
I peered at the hat Scarecrow had given me with awe. It had a large, circular cover and an unusually wide, flat peak with pinstripes running down the sides with some sort of diamond shaped logo at the front. It looked exactly like those hip hop hats that teenage boys like to wear. Dorothy was turning her hat around in her hands.
"Why, what a peculiar hat." she said to my surprise. I know she's from Kansas but she must have at least heard or seen off the internet stuff like this - after all, she chose to listen to 3OH!3 on the way here. That girl amazes me sometimes.
"They've been getting quite popular recently." said Scarecrow. "Oz knows how they ended up in a jumble sale."
We headed out with our hats pulled down over our faces. Dorothy looked absolutely hilarious. A twelve year old girl with pigtails in a 1920s styled checkered dress over a white blouse, vintage leather shoes, carrying a wicker basket and she's wearing a black hip hop hat with pinstripes. The two styles clashed terribly.
We walked down toward the hospital, keeping our heads tucked down casually as not to look shifty and so that I wouldn't bust out laughing at the sight of Dorothy. Come to think of it, I didn't really want to go look at the protest. I wanted to stay as far away from all this as possible and just forget what happened to be honest.
"Would you look at that!" exclaimed Dorothy as we approached the scene. We were at least a block away and we could already hear shouts of protestors and see a bit of the mob. We walked closer, our steps becoming more and more hesitant as we neared the hospital. We watched the commotion from across the street. Citizens of all ages filled the entire front lot of the hospital, pumping signs in the air with simple headings like: KILL THE WITCH, LET HUMANITY LIVEin black marker or LET EVIL BE ABOLISHED. There were those pesky reporters everywhere, shoving their microphones at people who seemed all too happy to oblige and sound their opinions with cameras flashing in their faces.
"Hey look!" said Scarecrow and excitedly pointed at a group farther off to the side.
I looked and saw they appeared to be a separate group from the rest of protestors. They looked to be a bunch of religious zealots shouting out their opinions of the Witch and some god – the Unnamed God it sounded like. But it wasn't that that was exiting. One of them – an older man with a potato shaped head in a hooded jacket had seized a microphone then hopped onto the flat hood of a parked automobile and had started speaking, waving a poster of a religious figure at the crowd.
"CITIZENS OF NEST HARDINGS!" he boomed, his voice echoing loudly throughout the crowd…..that's a good microphone. "IS THIS WHAT WE HAVE SUCCUMBED TO? HAVE WE BECOME SO DESPERATE THAT WE DO FAVORS FOR WITCHES?" the man's face had gone red with passion to my mild amusement.
"THE WITCH – A COLLABERATOR WITH THE DEVIL, PERFORMER OF MAGICK OF ALL THINGS!" he had his poster faced toward the crowd. Like all religious figures, the character on the poster had a sullen look to him. It was an old, skinny man dressed in a long black robe with a sort of wooden charm tied to the waist. The artist had painted the figure against a grimy, greyish back color that seemed to emphasize the subject's cold, blue face painted in a permanent scowl, the jaw set and highlighting the shadowy, sunken cheeks, his brow spiky and casting shadows over the eyes. I stared at the figure. It's expression seemed almost to be one of disappointment or accusation or…. judgement.
Judgement for the sins mankind has committed and have yet to commit…maybe, I don't know.
"THE WITCH HAS SINNED REMORSELESSLY – "
"Do you believe in all that stuff, Scarecrow?" I said before I realized it.
"What stuff?"
"That." I nodded toward the ranting priest. "Bout like…..sins and….hell and….guilt and all of that."
"Well I -" Scarecrow glanced down at me with his eyes narrowed in an expression I couldn't read. Then he looked up again. "I …well…."
"Do you?"
"WE ARE SPENDING OUR RESOURCES ONA DEMON!"
"No." said Scarecrow.
The man on the poster glowered in my direction, his expression remorseful, disappointed and seemingly judgemental as if he could see right through me, causing me to wither internally at the exposure.
"You feel rather guilty about all this don't you?" said an elderly voice.
"HOLY FRIGGIN–"
My heart exploded at the shock and I instinctively whipped around to face my accuser, half expecting to see the man on the poster standing in front of me, looming over me to judge my crimes. But luckily that wasn't the case. It was him again. He was dressed in the same black cloak and leggings he wore when I first saw him although he was no longer carrying his bag. He had his hands at his sides, the fingers twitching as if longing to take action of some sort. Up close I could see that he was about my height and that his skin was pale and highlighted his eyes that seemed to have sunk into their sockets, causing them to narrow permanently while his brow furrowed and his greyish lips pinched themselves into a thin, menacing line. This time I knew for sure - it was a look of cold, utter resentment but why? What relation do I have with this man that causes him to hate me so much?
I racked my brains, trying to remember the name I saw – most likely his name. I remember it sounded English, something like Fredrick or Franklin – something with an F… Frexpar. Yes, that was it. Frexpar Thropp.
"Well, don't you?" Frexpar growled, his voice low and steely, reminding me of the Witch.
My mind was stunned into blankness and I couldn't think to formulate a suitable answer. So I kept my mouth shut.
The man – Frexpar then brushed past me, without a further word and stomped off, his steps heavy as if he intended to punch holes into the ground with the soles of his feet.
I started after him, filled with wonder and sudden rising fear.
Who is that man?