9: The Burg
A/N: Moar scattered swearing.
Despite the fact that Scarecrow was almost sure that his friends were dead, and despite that he no longer had a left arm below the elbow, and despite that his straw was muddy and his seams were torn and there were bothersome loops of knotted thread everywhere, the morning still smiled down upon the forest. The sun was so violently cheerful that Scarecrow imagined he could hear the old, crotchety trees grumbling out their displeasure at the jolly weather.
It was high noon before the old zombie had finally, finally brought Scarecrow to its home. He could hear it before he saw it; the buzz and thrum of a great hive, a city. Voices; merchants, people calling, yelling at kids, children screaming, the nicker of horses (Scarecrow shivered) and the squawk of distressed chickens. What a crappy place to build a city, Scarecrow thought. Zombies were either very stupid to have built a city here in the middle of an awful forest, or they were very smart to have built a city in the first place – Scarecrow wouldn't peg a zombie as the type of person to make informed architectural decisions, but then again, what did he know? Anyways, from the sounds of it, there were more than zombies within the walls. Those voices were too animated to have come from the undead.
The city wall loomed towards them, tall and forbidding. It was made of grey bricks, no doubt chiseled from this dratted rock underfoot, upon which Scarecrow could not stop tripping. As they came closer, he saw that there was at least one great gate. It had no road leading into it, but it didn't seem as if the zombie were leading Scarecrow to the gate anyways; the old zombie was leading him to something much closer, still in the forest, where, to his horror, a cohort of people stood rigid and statue-like in formation.
Scarecrow tried to hide behind the old zombie as they approached the formation, but it became apparent that these people were more zombies, in various states of entropy. They were guarding a hole in the ground, of all things. None of them looked at all pleased or angered to see them; in fact Scarecrow wondered if in fact they even knew that two beings had just joined their presence.
The old zombie stopped just short of the hole, and then turned to look at Scarecrow. Apparently this was the end of the road for his escort. Scarecrow came to the hole and saw that it was a steep tunnel, hewn into the bedrock, heading down and towards the city. A tunnel beneath the city gates.
"Well, okay," said Scarecrow. He supposed if Dorothy and Lion – and presumably Tin Man – had been taken into the city itself, then the city must be at least partly hostile. It wouldn't do to go traipsing up to the gate itself and demand to be let in. Although he couldn't for the life of him guess why these zombies were letting him in here, whereas doubtless on the other side of this tunnel there was another group of zombies that had it out for him, or at least for his friends. Very strange.
"Thanks," he said, turning to the old zombie. "You've been a ton of help."
The zombie stared at him.
"I owe you."
The zombie stared at him.
"Well… so long." Scarecrow, wondering how zombies processed gratitude, if indeed they did, which he seriously doubted, turned and stepped down into the blackness of the tunnel. The light from the world above faded quite quickly, and even Scarecrow's relatively good night vision was hard-pressed in such deep shadow. The floor and walls were slick and Scarecrow stumbled and fell several times on the steep grade before the tunnel leveled out. Each time he fell, he dropped Dorothy's basket and had to find all of its contents again before moving on. The needle had been loose in the basket; he decided it would be safer if he stowed it away in his ear. He was very proud of having thought to put the needle somewhere safe but he soon forgot about his pride, as the tunnel went on towards who knew where. He heard little things skittering around him but he could not see well enough to tell what they were. Rats? Zombie rats? The tunnel smelled fetid but Scarecrow was not surprised, as the primary population around these parts all smelled fetid themselves.
Soon the tunnel was completely devoid of any light whatsoever, and for the first time in his life Scarecrow stumbled through utter darkness, holding out his hand (and arm stump) to keep from hitting the wall. Several times he stumbled straight into soggy pillars of flesh – zombies standing guard in the darkness. He would yelp and jump back but the zombies never paid him any heed, so he would continue on, shaking.
Time dragged on into eternities and Scarecrow found himself wishing that the population of tunnel zombies would grunt out periodic brains to help Scarecrow track the passing of time, but there was nothing auditory for him to latch onto. Once, after having run into the rough-hewn wall, dropping the basket, and feeling his loosely-attached arm threaten to fall off from the impact, he considered simply turning around. It would be better to come into the city through the gate and get captured than to try to come in through this tunnel and never be seen again.
His hesitation was short-lived, however. As he tried in vain to tighten the threads that held his right arm to his shoulder, he caught a faint glow in the corner of his eye. He turned and saw that, yes, there was something besides pitch black out there. Perhaps pitch purple, if such a thing existed, for it was still very dark indeed. The glow intensified the farther he went, and soon he was able to avoid running into the immobile tunnel zombies altogether. The tunnel widened out; he came to a chamber, and he was struck at first by the eerie sight of a strange, luminescent pool spread across the middle of the chamber, standing undisturbed except for a steady stream of bubbles that rose to the surface near the middle. A ring of undead stood silent watch around the whole spectacle, skin pale and dappled with the starry reflections from the oddly glowing water. Despite how guard-like the zombies looked, Scarecrow couldn't see what the zombies might be guarding, and they didn't seem to care in the least that someone had just walked in on them.
"What are you guys looking at?" he asked, but the chamber took his words and tossed them wildly against the domed ceiling and stone walls. The echoes came back to his ears as wild proclamations uttered by a complete madman. He flinched and waited for the cavern to finish swallowing the echoes. The zombies hadn't reacted in the least, and he didn't wish to hear his own voice so warped again, so he resolved to snuff out his curiosity and keep quiet. His curiosity, however, did not wish to be snuffed out, especially after he caught sight of some thin, dark shadows hanging against the wall to his left. Two steps towards the mystery shadows, he realized they were chains bolted up into the wall with shreds of rope dangling from their ends. They looked suspiciously like well-used implements of restraint. This discovery killed Scarecrow's curiosity about the area. He turned away with a shudder.
There was another tunnel that joined this chamber, some paces to the right of where Scarecrow's tunnel opened up. It was pitched steeply upwards; Scarecrow went to stand in its entrance, gazing up its length, and saw that it was very short. The tunnel was a steep flight of stairs. He could just make out the outline of a door at the top, bright sunlight lighting up the cracks. He turned around to look around the chamber again and saw that a staircase was carved into the wall on the other end of the little chamber. Scarecrow's eyes followed it up, and he saw that it disappeared into a hatch in the ceiling. Scarecrow could hear voices drifting down from the other side of the hatch, and he couldn't tell if they were friendly voices or homicidal voices. What with the shackles he'd discovered in the cavern, he suspected the latter.
On the other side of the hatch was probable conflict. Scarecrow would have to explain why he'd just come up through a hatch in the ground to interrupt somebody's conversation. On the other side of the door at the end of the side-tunnel there might be a chance for him to… to do something more useful. Or something.
Scarecrow took the stairs towards the backlit door.
He didn't see that this door had more guards standing near it until he arrived there, but once again they did not hinder him as he approached. He pressed his ear against the door and heard little more than the distant buzz of the city. Good. He put the basket down, set one hand and one elbow stump against the wood grain of the door, and pushed.
It did not budge.
"Hey guys," he said to the guards. "I'm made of straw and this thing is sort of heavy. Would you please open this door so I can get through?"
The zombies lurched, and pushed, and the door opened. Sunlight streamed down into the tunnel, and Scarecrow squinted before crawling up into the light of day.
"You can shut the door," he said to the zombies, for he wasn't sure why there was a door or why there were guards but he didn't want to just barge in and screw things up for this city by leaving a door open that should remain shut, although some of the zombies of the city had certainly barged in and screwed things up for Dorothy and the rest of the group the previous night.
The zombies shut the door behind him, and Scarecrow turned around to discover that he was standing on an open-air stage. It was sunken into the ground so he could not see out and beyond to the rest of the city, and on the stage there was a funny sort of table that stood with one end definitely higher than the other, and the lower end pointing straight at where an audience might choose to stand. The low end was stained a deep red-brown, as was the stage beneath the table, and that was about all Scarecrow saw before he decided he didn't want to see any more. Fear gripped him; where were his friends? What had been done to them? He could not imagine that whatever took place on this stage reflected kindly upon the nature of the people who watched, and he suddenly felt more than uncomfortable standing on it.
It was then that he realized he wasn't alone. The people had apparently frozen in their tasks the moment Scarecrow had appeared. Two of them were kneeling across on the other side of the stage, and they had rags in their hands. Two more were away from the stage in the audience area, holding a bench. Perhaps they had been arranging seats, but for all Scarecrow new, they had been practicing a tandem bench-juggling routine. Scarecrow felt a short-lived bolt of relief go tearing through his head as he realized that these were not zombies, but real meat people. A moment later he wondered why that was such a good thing, as most of the zombies here seemed neutral enough, if not leaning towards helpful. Judging from their expressions, these men would be less apt to assist him.
Possibly the men had not been juggling, as jugglers tended to be the jolly sort, and these men looked rather more serious. Scarecrow felt his straw go cold as all four of them dropped what they were doing and made towards him. He wondered if disappearing back down the door the way he'd come would be a good idea, so he took two steps backwards. Just as he was realizing that there was no way he'd be able to open the heavy door by himself, he bumped into something behind him that felt less door-like and more blade-like. Whirling around and almost losing his balance, he was horrified to see he'd been right; there stood yet another man. He held a knife in front of him, but for being the one with the weapon, he was somehow managing to look more terrified than Scarecrow felt, which was an impressive feat indeed. Scarecrow raised his basket-laden right hand and his left limb in a helpless sort of way, hoping the man wouldn't strike.
"C-c-captain Snowden!" yelled the knife-wielding one.
"No need to yell, Grimot, I'm right here," said a voice, and Scarecrow reluctantly turned to see that the other four people had gathered around him, and all of them save the one who had answered as Captain Snowden had drawn knives and were holding them up.
"What is it?" asked one.
"Look, it's got straw all over it! Look at its arm, there's straw sticking out!"
"Not a man, surely?"
"Crunched a bit when it ran into my blade…"
"…Freckles…" one of them muttered, inexplicably.
"Check its basket, it's probably full of witchcraft."
"Lower your blades," said the man named Captain Snowden, who had been regarding Scarecrow with more curiosity than fear, though there wasn't much for warmth behind his eyes.
"But we don't even know what it is," said Grimot.
"Yes, but clearly he's harmless. We needn't be waving weapons around."
Scarecrow was both gratified that he'd been given a kinder pronoun and somewhat stung that he appeared so clearly harmless, but he couldn't exactly argue. The men lowered their blades.
"Welcome to The Burg, outsider… Now tell me quick," said Snowden to Scarecrow, taking a step forward, "who are you, what are you, and what were you doing coming out of that door?" Scarecrow's mouth opened and closed a few times as he tried to answer all three questions at once, while simultaneously telling himself that he probably shouldn't answer any of them in the first place. Meanwhile, the grey eyes of Captain Snowden were boring holes through Scarecrow's head. Snowden was not a big man – one of the smallest of the group, hardly taller than Scarecrow – but he carried himself as if his bones were made of tempered steel and Snowden's stone-hewn features made Scarecrow feel as if he himself were as transparent as the wing of a fly. He wore all black, which would have matched his grey-streaked hair in a rather dashing way if Snowden had been a dashing sort of chap; Snowden looked like he couldn't possibly give less of a shit about whether or not he came off dashingly.
"Um," stated Scarecrow, feeling a bit cowed.
"Go on, please," said Snowden.
"What was the question again?" Scarecrow asked, with a wince. Snowden gave him a curious sort of look.
"I asked you who you were first."
"That's an awful big question."
"A name would suffice."
"Right, sorry. My name's Scarecrow. I guess. Since that's what I am. Obviously. Was that one of your questions too?" he asked meekly. Snowden's men all raised their knives a few inches.
"You say you're a 'scarecrow'?" Snowden asked, giving him a bit of a squint.
"Yes," said Scarecrow, trying to keep his eyes on the captain and not on the knives. "Apparently you don't like scarecrows around here… Don't worry, I'm friendly."
"What is a 'scarecrow'?" asked Snowden.
"What? What's a scarecrow? Really?" Scarecrow asked, but was met with a very serious rock-face from Snowden. "Well scarecrows are… I mean they… people… farmers make scarecrows to, you know, scare away the crows. From their corn."
"Corn?"
"Corn, yeah. The yellow stuff? That you eat?" Snowden and the others were clearly not familiar with 'corn'. "You guys don't get out much, do you?"
"What were you doing coming out of that door behind you?" Snowden asked sharply, making Scarecrow jump.
"Nothing! I mean I was just… You know, walking…"
"Are you made of straw?"
"Yeah…"
"You haven't got a brain then, have you?"
"No!" declared Scarecrow, glad to have a definite answer. The other men drew in a collective breath, as if Scarecrow's brainlessness were the most life-changing thing they'd ever heard. Snowden's eyes may have softened slightly with wonder, but it didn't last long. His eyes became chips of stone again and Scarecrow was left to wonder what that had all been about.
"Please," said Snowden, "come with me." He turned and gestured that Scarecrow should walk with him.
"Where?"
"To meet a very important man."
"A wizard?" asked Scarecrow excitedly, forgetting for a moment that he was surrounded by suspicious-looking knife-wielders. His question only served to make the men look even more suspicious.
"No more questions, please," said Snowden. "Come this way. You others; back to work. Lots to be done before tomorrow morning."
Scarecrow didn't see that he had a choice but to come abreast of Snowden. Together they walked past half-arranged flocks of benches and tables, Scarecrow struggling to keep up with the captain, whose strides were quick for one whose legs were none too lengthy. He had no idea what to say and no idea what to do besides go with Snowden. Perhaps the important man that he was being taken to would know where Dorothy and the others were. Perhaps the important man could help him save his friends. Perhaps the important man was the one holding his friends captive.
They walked up the bricks of the central aisle, which sloped upward and through a stone arch and came up level with the street outside. They stopped beneath the archway, in the shadows cast by the midday sun, and Scarecrow was petrified to note that very close, there was a wagon with a black-canvas covering, and it was hitched to some sort of horse-creature. The horse glanced their direction and Scarecrow could have sworn that it marked his presence; a meal on legs had just arrived. Scarecrow furtively put Snowden between himself and the horse. Snowden glanced at him and noticed the direction of his gaze.
"You'll be getting in the back of the wagon," said Snowden. "Out of reach of the horse."
"Oh good," sighed Scarecrow, relieved for a moment, before realizing that being told to get into the back of a mysterious black wagon was none too pleasant either. But Snowden nudged his shoulder forward, firmly enough to tell Scarecrow that Snowden wasn't messing around.
"Quickly now. You don't want to be seen here," said the captain quietly, guiding Scarecrow around a boy who had been laying bricks on the path, but who had paused to chat with a girl in a black dress.
"Why don't I want to be seen again?" asked Scarecrow.
Snowden didn't answer. Arriving at the back of the wagon, the captain indicated that Scarecrow should board, so he set the basket in the wagon and hoisted himself up as best he could, which was one of the more graceless maneuvers he'd ever executed, owing to the lack of a left hand and forearm. The covered wagon was empty save for two benches that sat facing each other against the wagon's wood-frame walls.
"Take a seat, Scarecrow," said Snowden, hopping up into the wagon. Scarecrow did, and presently Snowden had a length of rope in his hands and was tying it to one of the support beams of the wagon. "I'm going to tie you to this post," Snowden explained, looping the other end of the rope around Scarecrow's right arm and pulling the knot tight, "because people around here don't like new things. A scarecrow is certainly a new thing. You stick out like a sore thumb. I don't want anyone coming aboard and carrying you off; they would tear you apart, do you understand?"
Scarecrow nodded, mortified.
"If anyone sees you and approaches, yell and I'll come, alright?"
Scarecrow nodded again, though he hadn't decided whether the nod was to show he understood, or to make Snowden stop talking. Each time Snowden opened his mouth reality seemed to get stranger, and though Scarecrow had a remarkably open mind, he was becoming rather overwhelmed. He watched numbly as the captain leapt down from the wagon and stepped back out into the sunlight before striding over to another group of men who were talking in the shadow of the arch. Scarecrow strained to hear what was being said but could only make out the tones. Snowden was handing his command of the project over to one of the men. He pointed back at the wagon and all of the men glanced at him briefly. He badly wished he could hear what was being said but the atmosphere was thick with noise – the passing of other wagons drawn by devilish, behooved beasts; the clattering of wheels over stone; the buzz of many voices raised in idle chatter, and the shrill of vendors hawking their wares upon unsuspecting passers-by; chickens squawked and somewhere there was a rather upset pig. He became aware of the close-by conversation going on between the girl in the black dress and the brick-laying boy. The boy was on his hands and knees and Scarecrow could not see him over the edge of the wagon, but he could see the girl. She looked a bit like she'd spent the entire morning perfecting the curls in her black hair. Every time she moved, the ringlets flounced about her neck.
"Dad had it made special at Herob's," she explained, and twirled. The dress and matching cloak blossomed like a great black morning glory flower. Wouldn't that be more like an evening glory flower? Scarecrow wondered. The boy made a timidly appreciative sound, and the girl giggled a bit before a pout came over her features. "He didn't get me the matching shoes, though. Mom would have gotten me the shoes."
"Oh?" said the boy, sounding a bit out-of-focus. Quite possibly his brain had been dazzled to bits by her brilliant smile. Scarecrow had heard that the right smile from the right woman could totally destroy a man's mind, though this was a girl, not a woman, and she seemed a bit young yet to be a destroyer of either men or boys.
"Yes, I know she would have. Those shoes are made of fish hide, they're fabulous."
Scarecrow, who wasn't interested in shoes unless they were Dorothy's ruby slippers, let his attention drift away from the girl. Snowden was approaching again at a rapid stride.
"Tata," he called, and the girl in the black dress looked up. "We're leaving. Get in the wagon."
"I thought you had to prepare the stage for tomorrow morning," the girl pouted. The boy she'd been talking to stood, and Scarecrow saw that the flurry of hair on his head was flecked with brick mortar, as was his mortar apron.
"Plans have changed," said Snowden. "I have something more important to do."
"Does it have anything to do with that man that you just tied up in the wagon?"
"Shhh, yes, sweetie, but we must keep him a secret. Now come."
Sweetie? The stone-faced captain had a daughter, apparently, and Scarecrow had the fleeting but very real worry that the girl would spend the entire ride, whatever its length, talking about dresses and shoes. The fear was brief because Scarecrow then realized that Tata's question had directed the boy's attention straight into the wagon to see who Tata had been talking about, and now the boy had locked down on Scarecrow with a gaze that had far more intensity to it than a boy his age should have been privy to. Scarecrow stared blandly back, trying to look as unscarecrowlike as possible.
"Never mind him, Brock," came Snowden's voice, and the boy broke his gaze away from Scarecrow.
"Captain Snowden," he called instead, and walked around the wagon to where Snowden stood. Scarecrow couldn't see them now but he could hear them quite clearly.
"Yes, boy?"
"I just remembered – I made a delivery to Mr. Herob's this morning. He said he had something he wanted to mention to you."
"He say what it was?"
"No sir, he wouldn't tell me. Says he saw something suspicious the other day. Golly, I think that was Mr. Herob, I made so many deliveries this morning it was all a blur…"
"Alright. Herob's is on the way, I'll stop in and check." A moment later the captain had come aboard the wagon and had taken the reins of the horse into his hands. Tata leapt up to sit next to him, a sly smile on her features. Perhaps she thought Brock had just convinced her father to take her on an unintentional shoe-acquiring mission. Scarecrow wouldn't have bet on it, though. As the wagon lurched out into the chaos of the street, Scarecrow had a splendid view of the stony path passing behind them, the unlabeled buildings, the flow of people in heavy woolen cloaks with baskets on their head and stringers of fish glistening in the cold sunlight closing in the wagon's wake, other carts dawn by more ravenous hooved creatures rumbling past, and through it all the boy Brock was winding his way, following the captain's wagon, his young eyes riveted upon Scarecrow as if to lose sight would mean the bitterest of failure.
