Chapter Twelve:

Ambrose had heard the first call of his name, had heard the stumbling downstairs and on the way up, and had even heard the murmurings in the hallway outside. And still he dared not move. Not from this place . . .

When the knock sounded, it was expected. When the door opened slightly, it was expected too. And for some reason the inventor had even expected Raw to be there with Cain when the door swung open all the way, and their curious, concerned faces appeared.

"Ambrose?" Cain asked, his voice almost a whisper. His eyes were far too busy sweeping the room to look at the other man just yet.

The walls were a faded pink, unicorns and other creatures painted in a deep purple along the top near the ceiling as a border of sorts. The source of the light sat on Ambrose's right – a small lamp covered by a spinning shade with animals cut into the fabric so that they danced in a circle along the walls; forever chasing but never catching one another. As Cain watched the figures coast along, he noticed that they did, in fact, move. The horses bucked and reared, kicking their legs wildly. The elephants swung their trunks from side to side, lifting them every now and again to soundlessly trumpet. The monkeys jumped restlessly from foot to foot, waving their long arms and shaking their heads so that their ears flapped.

Ambrose, himself, sat on a very small bed in one corner of the room, watching the animals come to life around him.

"Ambrose?" Cain tried again, this time more strongly. "What are you doing here? You should be resting."

"This was my sister's room," the inventor explained matter-of-factly, as if the question had pertained to his answer.

"Sister?" The tin man asked, ignoring the insistent squeeze of his shoulder. "You . . . You never mentioned a sister."

"She's another faerie tale, Cain," Ambrose sighed, smiling lightly as the elephant passed by. "Just like my entire life. It's one big story that just keeps getting passed down from one generation to another until it doesn't even resemble the truth anymore."

"Tell me the story, Ambrose," the tin man demanded, brushing off Raw's warning growl and striding towards the other man. He crouched in front of the inventor, studying him carefully and leaning in close. "Tell me."

Ambrose looked back with unseeing eyes, nodding absently. "It was once upon a time . . ."

0 o 0 o 0

//. . . there was a small boy and his mother and father. They were somewhat of an odd family, but they fit together so perfectly that none of them could complain . . . or so it was thought.

Because while it seemed they were very happy together, something was missing. Something terribly important. And none of them knew what . . . until she was born.

The small boy was so happy to have a younger sister. No longer would he be alone when normal children went to school or played outside his house. He would have someone to talk to, someone to share secrets with from mother and father.

But something unexpected happened. The new little sister was not fun to play with or share secrets with. She was small and loud and always hungry. She did not listen very well, and she always wanted to be heard. And the little boy soon grew very intolerant of his sister.

When the girl was four years of age, the boy could stand her no longer and wished with all the power in his little heart that she would leave for a very long time to a place very far away.

The boy never thought that his wish would come true, but when it did, he couldn't think of anything worse than wishing one's sister away. He tried to wish her back everyday. Even after he grew and grew and his parents died and faded into memories, he wished.

Not until many years later, when he was on the brink of giving up, did his wish finally come true again. But she was young! No more than twenty years of age! Not only had he sent her somewhere very far, he had sent her to a different time entirely!

But times were dangerous. The evil witches of the east and west made things very difficult for everyone. And when the girl's house landed on one of the witches, many thought their troubles were over . . . everyone but the young man. He knew the witch of the west did not like her sister at all and would be quite happy to discover she was dead. But to learn that her sister's power was taken by a girl from the other side . . . Well, things would not be happy for very long.

The young man raced to help his sister but found he wasn't needed. The good witch from the north was ready and waiting, offering her assistance with a wave of her wand. It was just as well, Ambrose thought. Who would want help from the brother who sent them away in the first place?

But the good witch had other plans. As soon as she sent the girl on her way, she appeared to him, asking him why he had wished her away to begin with.

The young man did not know. He had been a foolish child with broken dreams and wanted nothing more than to fix everything and keep his sister safe, even if it meant she had to hate him.

The good witch thought of something much better.

The man found himself, quite suddenly, in a field of corn and not at all himself. He felt prickly and light and . . . stuck. His feet weren't even touching the ground! And no matter which way he twisted and turned, he couldn't seem to find a way to free himself. What was worse was that he couldn't remember what on earth he was doing up there, or where he was, or . . . who he was.

His memories were missing. Oh, if only he could find them . . . But how? And how could he be certain that he was missing any memories at all? What if he had always been like this? What if he was stuck here forever? No memories? No one to keep him company but the crows that didn't seem as afraid of him as they should be?

His thoughts were interrupted, suddenly, by the very faint sound of shoes tap-tap-tapping against the yellow brick road that stretched out for miles on either side of his cornfield. Could it be someone to come and rescue him? Or could it be the evil witch coming to set fire to him and his field?

Perhaps if he had been in his right mind – assuming he had one – he would have realized that witches flew on brooms and most certainly did not tap-tap-tap on yellow brick roads.

But since he was not in his right mind, he decided to stay very still until he could find out whether this stranger was a friend . . . or an enemy.

To his surprise, what he found was a young girl . . . a very familiar girl. She was pretty, and she had a strange little creature with her that made a lot of noise. A lot of noise. Maybe this girl was the witch in disguise . . . It wouldn't hurt just to play a trick or two, would it? A point in one direction here, a point in another direction there, and maybe a point in both directions. There, that should confuse that nasty old witch. Serves her right for pretending to be a defenseless young girl . . .

But she didn't seem very witch-like at all. In fact, she seemed very . . . lost. And frightened. And alone. Much like he was.

And so he befriended her, this stranger from a far away land outside of the O.Z. Along their journey to the Emerald City, they met new friends: a rusted man of tin, left alone and without a heart, and a cowardly lion, who lacked the courage to leave the forest by himself.

But together they had enough heart and courage to make it all the way to the city of green. The roads were dangerous, full of flying monkeys and sleep-inducing poppies. And even worse, when they finally reached the Emerald City, they were turned away by the cruel and frightening wizard, told that they could not receive a favor from the wizard without first doing something for him.

After all, most favors – the really good ones, at least – require favors in return. And, by golly, were these some very big favors. But the wizard asked for far too much! How could they possibly bring this man – this wizard – something that he, himself, could not get from the wicked witch:

Her broomstick.

Surely without brains and heart and nerve there was no way to defeat the witch, let alone steal the one thing she never seemed to be without. But without the broomstick, they didn't stand a chance of getting what they'd come for. And it certainly wouldn't hurt to try . . . at least they hoped not.

Before their plans could fully take form, the young girl was stolen away, the witch's monkeys taking her far from her three new friends . . . maybe too far.

The witch's castle was possibly the most frightening place in the O.Z. It lay beyond the border, in the darkness . . . in the Shadowlands, where monsters of unmeasurable fright dwelled. The castle was guarded by hundreds of green soldiers, innocents of the O.Z. captured and experimented on, brainwashed to suit the witch's needs.

But the three continued on, determined to save the young girl. And, finally, after soldier impersonations and being set on fire and melting the wicked witch to a puddle of nothing, the broomstick was theirs.

Their return to the Emerald City was met with cheers and an uprising of absolute joy. No longer was the O.Z. plagued by the wicked witches. The people could live freely and without fear.

But the wizard was still unmoved. He had not expected them to succeed, to return and demand the things he had promised. He had not expected such inferior beings to complete the impossible, to do what he could not.

And so he denied them . . . until they learned his secret. He was not a wizard at all! He was just a man. A very old, very tired man. He had been locked away by himself for many years and had become bitter against the O.Z.

But the young girl's persistence and the lion's courage and the tin man's compassion and the scarecrow's great knowledge changed him. And he was able to show them that what they thought they had lacked, they'd had all along.

And with this revelation came the scarecrow's memories. He wasn't a scarecrow at all! He was a man . . . a man with a curse. Suddenly, he was not so happy to have the knowledge of his old life back. He would have been much happier being a bumbling, absent scarecrow than who he really was.

He revealed himself, finally able to tell the girl who he truly was and why she had been sent away and what had happened to their parents. She listened and cried long-awaited tears, torn between her new home and the only one she had known.

He awaited her hatred, the harsh words he knew were to come. And he knew he wouldn't blame her, would take her anger and accept whatever punishment she chose for him.

He was so lost in these sad thoughts that when a pair of warm arms engulfed him in a loving embrace, he was startled beyond reciprocating the gesture.

She was not angry. She did not hold a grudge against him. And she most certainly did not hate him. She was just so very happy that she had been home all along and that she had a family to share it with.

The O.Z. was grateful to the siblings, asking them to step up and rule in the witches' stead – fairly and with great kindness.

The young girl agreed readily, swearing her life to the people of the O.Z., but the young man – who was not so very young at all and who had seen the evils in the O.Z. as well as his own heart – was not so eager to take his place as ruler. In fact, it frightened him. What kind of evils would befall the kingdom were he to gain so much power so quickly?

He was not willing to take such a chance.

So he left, no goodbyes to taint his escape. And he returned to the home he knew, the only home he'd ever had. Many years passed, and when word of his sister's death reached him, he mourned.

It was then that the good witch of the north appeared to him, bearing many letters that his sister had written to him over the years. She had not known where to send them, and so they had accumulated, becoming many and filling nearly an entire room. It would take him weeks to read them all, maybe months – not that it mattered much; after all, he did have all the time he needed to read them.

Before reading them, though, there was much to do. With the help of the good witch, the man created a place, a special place, where his sister could lay in peace, where all the heirs of the throne could one day lay in peace. He sealed her and the power of the O.Z. -- the prized green emerald – away forever, so that no one, not even himself, would be tempted to use its greatness for evil.

Again, he shut himself away from the world, remaining in the house with nothing to keep him company but her letters and the sound of his inventions ticking and tocking away for eternity. Not until many, many years later, when a palace guard approached him and requested his presence on behalf of the queen did he re-emerge from the place his parents had built to keep him safe . . .//

0 o 0 o 0

"This room," Raw said, looking around warily. He was not at all comfortable in this room. It was as if it was a place all its own, not at all a part of the O.Z. "It was hers."

"You left that part out of your first story," Cain stated matter-of-factly.

"I thought it best." Ambrose nodded, his voice very sad and very small.

"Your sister," the blond said, keeping their eyes locked and their hands clasped. "She was the first queen of the O.Z.? She was the first Dorothy Gale?"

"She is the Gray Gale," the inventor confirmed. "The very first faerie tale. And she will be the very last."

"So . . . the O.Z.," Cain started, his eyes getting wider as he pieced things together, ". . . the O.Z. is yours?" He swallowed hard. "What I mean is . . . If the O.Z. was given to the both of you, and your sister ruled and died, that would mean . . ."

"That the throne is rightfully mine?"Ambrose finished with amusement. He looked down and shook his head. "No. I gave up my right to her." At Cain's confused expression, the inventor elaborated. "A man with that much power can do a great many things . . . and a man with my power can only lead the O.Z. to an eternity of darkness and destruction."

"Ambrose, you're capable of so much more than that. You don't have to be known only for your darker aspects."

"Then why is it that those are the only things people see when they look at me? The witch knew I could make things like the sun-seeder and the tdesphtl and the iron suit, and she took them!"

"She twisted them."

"No," Ambrose cried helplessly, covering his face. "No, she saw how I could twist them, and she used it. She used my ideas, my dark thoughts."

"I don't believe that," Cain said firmly, snatching the inventor's wrists and forcing his hands away from his face.

"You don't know what I've done," Ambrose sobbed, tears leaving streaks in the dust and dirt caked on his cheeks. "You don't know who I was before . . . before . . ."

"Then tell me," the tin man whispered urgently, his face mere inches from the other man's. He glanced fleetingly at Raw, who stood silently across the room, watching them both with trepidation. He was nearly shivering, and his eyes shined with fear. "Show me."

Ambrose shook his head frantically, closing his eyes as Cain pressed their foreheads together.

"Show me," he pleaded, beckoning Raw closer. The healer complied warily, extending his trembling hands and placing one on Ambrose's head and the other on Cain's.

"I'm . . . I'm scared, Cain," the inventor whimpered, his head becoming fuzzy before his memories began to slither forward into his consciousness. He sucked in a deep breath, as did Cain.

"Me too," the tin man admitted before the assault of Ambrose's inner demons began.