A few minutes after she had left Fiyero, Elphaba had come across an old man, a farmer. He was old, wrinkly, crusty, and looked as if he had done everything life required him, and now the only think he had left to do was to check the corn for disease and pests.
The farmer wore thick lenses, and when he saw Elphaba approaching, he removed them, blew on them, rubbed them on his grubby shirt, and put them back on. Then he blinked, once, twice, three times. Then he raised his eyebrows, shook his head, and decided to ignore what was impossible to him.
"Excuse me?" Elphaba said. The farmer raised his head again and sighed.
"Yes?" he asked her.
"I was wondering . . . my, uh, companion and I have just arrived after a long journey. It's been, um, so long that, uh, we've forgotten where we were going. Can you tell me where we are?"
The farmer blinked at her. Elphaba was surprised. She had chosen her words as tactfully as possible, but she hadn't expected the old man to be so placid about it. There was no trembling, no shouts of horror, and no accusations of witchcraft or madness. Sure, the likes of her definitely were not seen every day, but the man seemed to accept that life sometimes threw strange things at him.
He said, "Where are you from?"
Elphaba thought a minute, and then said, "A place you haven't heard of."
"I haven't been anywhere," the farmer returned, "but I have heard of a lot of places. Maybe I've heard of yours."
Elphaba swallowed, and then replied, "I doubt it, mister. It's called Oz."
"Oh." The man seemed disappointed. "You've got me there." He cleared his throat, and said, "You're in the United States, miss."
"United . . ." Elphaba had never heard anything like it.
"States," the farmer finished. "I'm not the person to tell you about it; you'll have to ask the schoolteachers. But it is the United States, and the particular state you're in is Kansas."
Elphaba thought, where have I heard that name before? Then, it dawned on her: that girl. With the dog. She was babbling on and on about Kansas.
Wouldn't it be just her luck, she wondered, if that prissy little girl managed to get back home, only to encounter Elphaba? She might have to fake her own death again . . .
She took a deep breath. "Sir," she said, "I'm not from here, but you might be the only one who understands that. I don't know how things work here, but I'm pretty sure my skin color is not normal. However," she continued, "despite that, I want to blend in as much as possible. Is there a way to do that?"
The man smiled, then snorted, then laughed out loud. It was a jolly guffaw that, even though it was directed at her, put Elphaba instantly at ease. "Miss," he answered, "What's your name?"
"Elphaba," she replied.
"Okay. First thing: your name cannot be Elphaba. Too silly."
Too silly! Elphaba almost protested. She had been named after the most revered saint in all of Oz, honored by nearly every faith. How dare he call it silly . . .?
"Call yourself Ellie," he continued. "There's not much else I can do for you, other than tell you that the nearest house is eastward."
"Thank you," Elphaba told him, surprised at how much she had trusted the first person she came across. I'll have to keep that in check, she thought. "And you never saw me, right?"
"I never saw you," the farmer grinned. "Good luck. Others might not so . . . understand."
Elphaba smiled, nodded, and turned to walk eastward. She went a couple paces and then stopped. She called to the farmer, "My companion . . . his name is Fiyero! What should I call him?"
The farmer sighed, and then grinned again. "Fee-yero? You'd best be calling him Bob."