Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (9 page)

And so I sit and wait. I smile, and wave, and smile, and wave. This is what I have become. A symbol of light, rather than the light itself. A symbol of kindness, but impotent to act. Soon I shall fade away, become the statue in the square I so longed that they would build for me. And I will forever look kindly on them, their benevolent goddess, smiling and helpless, and useless, as useless as I am now. I was their perfection, their sweet confection of sugar and light and pink chiffon and white riffles and blond curls and starlit wand all balled up into one fading figure, slowly getting smaller, softer, kinder in this light, only now waving, and smiling, and smiling, and waving.

It was they who killed me; their love, their need.

They killed me with kindness.

East

It wasn’t a house.

That’s not how I pictured my death.

I mean, seriously. A house, falling from the heavens, dropped by a torrent of magic wind right onto my head. Who in their right mind ever believes that they will die by having a house dropped on them? Surely there is no imagination fertile or twisted enough to conceive such a possibility. And yet, here I lie, part of the foundation, proof that truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction.

This is not how I was supposed to die, not me, not a good, strong woman doing the best she can to set the world right. And it was not my time! I was not ready; I was not done. No, I died before my time. It’s not fair. But then again, what in all the land of Oz ever truly is fair?

I pictured my death much differently. I was old—truly old, ancient—enfeebled. I am in my bed. A wizened doctor, nearly as old as I, is nearby, but there is little he can do. Time, that great enemy and friend, has finally caught up to me. It is no matter. I am surrounded by the ones I love. Oh yes, I can love. My heart is not so hard as to excuse the possibility of love. I knew there would be a man someday. A man whose values agreed with mine, who saw the world as I see it. Flawed. Fractured. In need of structure, in need of discipline. He would help me to implement order, to bring stability to chaos. We would wed, and have children—two, both sons—and by the time of my death there would be great-great grandchildren, and me, the old matriarch of the clan, respected, revered and feared, as truly old women often are. But there would be love, the proper kind demonstrated in the proper manner, and they would sit by my side, my sons closest, then their wives, and children, and so on in this manner. There would be no disappointments, at least none allowed in my presence; a proper family, educated, brought up in the right manner. Something to be proud of. A legacy. Someone would hold my hand. I would go quietly, though not peacefully. Still, I would not prolong the event. It would not be proper to rage against time and nature in such a manner. All things must end, but only in their time.

Oh, I know what you say. What man would love me, me, a witch, ugly and bent as I am, black in my heart and soul? You believe the lies they tell in the Munchkin villages. You believe I am what they say I am. It puzzles me why their word is always believed over mine. My word is as inviolate as anyone else’s; my family is storied and has long, noble roots in this land. They are nothing more than mere peasants, plain folk villagers. They have no education, no culture. They need us to help them, to civilize them. That is all I have done. Yes, I have imposed rules. The rule of law, the rule of order. What government does not? Show me a government that allows chaos and I will show you a government that will soon fall. It is the very job and duty of government to impose order. And I am that government here.

My rules are not so strange, so different. They are—quite reasonable, if you look at them from the proper perspective. These folks, these munchkins—why, left to their own devices, they drink, they carouse, they row in the streets. What’s that you say? Let them rule themselves? They are not fit for such duty. They are not fit for much of anything, to be honest, not even good manual labor, small as they are, though dozens do work in my castle. They can clean, see to animals, lift small loads. They are like donkeys, and make good pack animals, given the proper training and incentive. On their own, they are wild. They lack breeding. They lack manners. They indulge in the most terrible of behaviors. Why, did you know they actually have guilds dedicated to sweets? Sugar will rot their teeth, and hardly represents a nutritious diet. Restrictions must be put in place, for the benefit of the people themselves. I have only their interests at heart.

Oh, do not be put off by their childlike appearances. They would drink (something fierce!) had I not prohibited liquor. They would fornicate in the streets like dogs if they had their druthers. Laws must be passed and so they were. And who could argue that things are not better? There is order now, there is discipline. They work and do as they are told. How is that not better for everyone?

What’s that? Yes, I closed the newspaper office. Yes, the libraries too. Why? Well, that must be obvious. Too many contradictory ideas—it’s not good for them. They confuse easily, you see. One idea. One course. One way, the right way. That’s the proper method to civilize a populace. The school? No, no, there is still a school—a school
I
opened, a school
I
organized for them. Now they all learn to read and write and to count to one hundred and learn all about their duties as citizens of the state. I tell you, I had to completely restructure the educational systems around here. Their previous standard of learning was appallingly low and the subject matters were ridiculous. Music? Art? Have these ever benefited anyone? Sure, they make for fine leisure pastimes, but leisure is the only area where the Munchkins excelled. Kindness lessons? Such drivel! Why not deportment, that’s what I said. Proper etiquette and deportment will help you get on in the world. And do I receive thanks or praise? Of course not. But in government, no one can truly expect such commendation. No one ever thinks to thank their betters. Such is the way of the world.

What? No, no, that simply is not true. Just another lie they tell in the square. Of course they still have their festival days, still gather together in great numbers in celebration. It is only the scope, the—what is the word—the
focus
of these festivals, well, of course that has changed. It’s all part of their re-education. Part of their learning. But I have not forbid them from gathering, from coming together in celebration. I only impose that they do it at certain times, under certain conditions, to celebrate the glory that is today, to toast the success of the state. And why not? Why should the people not be allowed to celebrate their own successes—oh yes, theirs as much as mine, for I do it all for them, every law, every commandment, every cleansing, every raid, every mass arrest, every new law, it is all for them, for the betterment of their lives. Why is that so hard to understand?

Well of course there has been punishment. There must be punishment! If someone breaks the law, they must be punished. Is that not the way in the Winkie land? Is that not also true in Sapphire City? You find my punishments cruel and unusual? You simply do not understand the depraved nature of the little beasts. Nor the simple effectiveness of such measured and tested policy. And these punishments are not cruel. The method of execution is swift and sure. No one suffers here. There is no need to suffer. Everyone gets what they deserve, whatever that may be.

Regrets? Oh, I’ve many, but most are for my people, the poor Munchkins. I fear my work is only begun. I fear what will happen to them without my strong, reasoned hand. Will they slip into anarchy, back into the revelry of yore? They need me, you see. They need me to fear because that is the only way they will ever change. Well, perhaps my lessons have sunk in. Perhaps these short years have been enough. I can only hope. They are my legacy, after all. Not the family I always planned on, or the happy life I envisioned. Not my simple, plaintive death. No, a house has put an end to all that. It is up to them, now. To carry on as I led them. To follow my example. To stay the course. It would be better for them. I know that. I absolutely do. And perhaps, in time, they will see that for themselves.

And perhaps, now that I am gone, they will finally learn to appreciate me.

South

I wasn’t supposed to die.

Not I, the most powerful being in all of Oz. More powerful than my good sister, more powerful than all the evil in Oz put together, more powerful than the charlatan Wizard and his foolish band. I, and I alone, am power incarnate.

And they took it all away.

I, and I alone, was destined to forestall death. That was my power, my right. And I had earned it. I was good . . . mostly. More truly I was power and, wielded for the right or the might, it did not matter. What I did was good because I did it. No one could say otherwise. But I did do good, I did. I was judicious and wise, more sorceress than witch, more goddess than sorcerer. I was Diana in her orb; Athena of the gray eyes; Venus in the heat of a luxurious bed. I was woman; one woman, every woman. I was birth mother, wet nurse, and shriveled, aged widow to all of Oz. I outlasted, I outperformed. I was never to die.

I remember the moment I first felt my powers. I was thirteen, and my womanhood had yet to come upon me. There were four of us total, all girls; but I was the eldest, and it fell to me to lead. I was a natural at it. Mama was busy; Papa had abandoned us years ago, and Mama raised us all herself. She wasn’t perfect; she did the best she could to give us food, clothing, a roof. What if the small thatch hut leaked? What if it was damp in autumn and cold in winter? What if we huddled together near a small fire for warmth, our shivering bodies covered only by a tattered woolen blanket and a thin layer of lard and dry leaves Mama would smear on us? We were dry, we were fed (though not often well), we had a roof. What right did we have to complain?

So Mama drank; it helped. And Mama could rage; oh how Mama could rage! Sometimes, at night, she would come into the room we all slept in, drunk on rye whiskey and full of wrath. I shared a straw bed with my youngest sister, Locasta, and I protected her as best I could. Mama favored us anyway, perhaps because we resembled her more, with our golden hair and pink skin; who can say. On the other bed of straw were my two middle sisters, Momba and Sally, as dark as we were fair, and somehow their raven hair and black coal eyes enraged Mama all the more. She used a broom on them, too often. It stung; I saw it in their eyes each night. But soon, perhaps too soon for those so young, they learned not to cry. It did them no good anyway, and such weakness—well, Mama abhorred such weakness.

During the day, when Mama had gentleman callers come ’round, we would escape, deep into the woods. There was a special place we all went to, a virid, still pool surrounded by a tall grove of sycamore and elm. The three oldest of us would rush out of our shifts and wade into the cool waters; this was our joyful time. Locasta would always hesitate, timid and afraid of the sea monsters our other sisters teased her lurked under the water’s edge. I would patiently grab her hand, walk her in. I would smile, to reassure her. And she would smile back, a timorous, wan little smile; but she would never relax.

Those happy moments were truly few; life was hard. But we were daughters of the North, the cold wastelands of Oz; we were used to hardship. And Mama could be sweet sometimes. On our birthdays she would give us walnuts and sing to us, pet us and hold us in her lap. I loved Mama in those moments, loved her with a ferocity I had never felt before or since. But those moments were fleeting; the drink, the men, they all came soon again, and life continued as it did before.

Then, one day, in the woods, wading pell-mell in the water, I felt funny, felt strange, as if a warm shock passed right through me. There was a cramp, and a grimace of mild pain. And there, in the water, I saw something red, ruby red, thicker than water and lazily drifting toward the murky bottom of the pool. Blood. I gasped; my courses had come, but I did not know that then. I only knew fear, terror, but I could not show this to my sisters. And the other two, they did not know; they only grumbled as I rushed them out of the water and bundled them home. Locasta, I think she suspected, but she said nothing as we trod home as fast as we could. She only smiled, a paean to me, that same forced smile I still see every night in my dreams before I go to sleep.

I told Mama about what had happened, and she was excited, powerful excited. She told me I was a woman now; that I was to stay home and help her in her work. I didn’t know what that meant, and I was sad to see my childhood slip away without any warning at all. But Mama said we needed the money, and so reluctantly, I did as she bade me do.

She sent the others off to play and took me to her room. She pulled out an old white, muslin dress; her wedding dress, she told me with a low mirthless laugh. Am I to be married, Mama? I asked with a fearful voice. Mama laughed again, but said nothing. The dress was long on me, reaching past my feet, but Mama told me to pay it no mind. She told me to lie down on the bed and wait until she came for me. I did as I was told, my mind a sea of possibilities as I waited for Mama to come.

But she didn’t come. Instead, a man came, a deserter from the Winkie army. He was dressed like a soldier and smelled of the same whiskey Mama favored. He leered at me. Such a pretty little thing, he said. I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say. I don’t think he minded none. He came over to the bed. He sat down next to me. He touched my hair. His calloused hand caressed my face. He was old, and stank of grime and frailty. I didn’t like him. His hand began to move lower, past my chin, my tight bosom, down the length of my leg. It moved as if on its own volition; his eyes never left my face. But mine were fused to his hand, to his lecherous advancing hand, wondering what he was going to do with it, what he was going to do to me.

He started to lift up my dress, slowly, past my ankle, my calf, my knee. I knew then in an instant what he was going to do to me. I didn’t know what to call it, or what Mama would call it, but I knew what he wanted. I just knew that when I touched myself in certain parts down there I felt a pleasure, real vague and hazy-like, and I knew that he wanted that pleasure, wanted to steal it from me and take it all for himself. My breath caught. He was strong; he was man. I knew I was powerless to stop him. But then, in an instant, in the sudden flash of inspiration, I knew I was wrong. I felt it, coming from somewhere deep inside, deeper than my gullet, deeper than any depth I conceived lay inside me. Power. Anger. Control. I knew then I was stronger than him, stronger than any man in Oz.