Son of a Witch

  8

  CANDLE HARDLY GLANCED at Liir. She sat on a rush-seated chair and rubbed the calloused pads of her right fingers over the upper strings. A faint harmonic vibration buzzed in the lower strings, almost inaudible—a sensation in the air more than a sound.

  The light heaved in its uncertain tides, as clouds too thin to see washed across the sky. The room chilled slightly.

  Candle let her fingers wander up the frets. She was a skilled musician, more skilled even than the kitchen sisters knew—skilled, and talented besides. This domingon was missing a vital part, and couldn’t peal or chide or keen as she would like to require of it. Still, to keep her fingers alert, from the domingon’s double necks Candle drew dull incomplete sentences. They had no power to comfort; this she knew. But she would tease the lengthy imponderable sounds out into the air anyway. She had seen the Red Pfenix in the sky. So it was her playing that had called him down, was it? She could do it again, and more besides.

  Abroad

  1

  THE DOMINGON PLAYED ON. Unheard by Liir in his state, it had its effect nonetheless.

  HE WAS LIVING IN THE CASTLE called Kiamo Ko at the time, but he wasn’t present at the death of the Witch.

  The Witch had locked him in the kitchen with Nanny and that jittery Lion. Showing surprising resourcefulness for one so dotty, Nanny had driven the handle of a one-egg iron skillet into the rotten wood of the doorjamb. Getting the idea, Liir and the Lion gouged at the hinges until the door fell heavily inward.

  Chistery, the Witch’s Snow Monkey, had skittered ahead of them up the stairs to the Witch’s tower-top chambers. But Dorothy was already coming down, her face glutinous with tears, the badly burned broom stinking in her hands. “She’s gone,” sobbed the girl, and Liir’s heart had gone out to her—whose wouldn’t? He’d sat on the step and snaked his arm around her shoulders. He was fourteen. First attraction is awkward under any circumstances, he supposed, but this was extreme. It wasn’t as if he’d ever seen people being tender. And she was a saint from the Other Land, for pity’s sake.

  The girl couldn’t control her shock, so it took Liir a while to understand what she was blubbering about. The Witch was gone. His earliest memory, his bête noire, his Auntie, his jail-keeper, his sage friend—his mother, the others had said, but there’d been no proof of that, and she’d never answered the question when he’d asked her.

  Dead, dead and gone, and after her own inspection, Nanny wouldn’t let him up to the parapet to see. “The sight would turn the holy blind,” she murmured, “so it’s a good thing I’m an old sinner. And you, you’re just a young fool. Forget it, Liir.” She pocketed the key and began to warble in an unfamiliar mode, some dirge from her backwater childhood. “Sweet Lurlina, mother of mercy, shroud of the murdered, shawl of the missing…”

  Nanny’s pagan pieties were somehow unconvincing. But on what basis could he say that? He’d left the unionist mauntery too young to absorb any of the tenets of faith that supported the cloistered way of life. From the distance of a skeptical adolescent, unionism seemed like a thicket of contradictions. Charity to all, but intolerance toward the heathen. Poverty ennobles, but the Bishops had to be richer than everyone else. The Unnamed God made the good world, imprisoning the rebellious human being within it, and taunting humankind with tinderbox sexuality that must be guarded against at all costs.

  Lurlinism was no more sensible, to judge by how Nanny spoke of it. Random episodes of mildly erotic dalliance, as Lurlina effectively wooed Oz into being. Privately he thought it was downright stupid, though, being prettier, it was also easier to remember.

  Perhaps he just didn’t have the feeling for faith. It seemed to be a kind of language, one whose gnarled syntax needed to be heard from birth, or it remained forever unintelligible. But he wished he had a faith now, some scrap of something: for Elphaba was dead, and to act as if the world were no more changed than if some branch of a tree had snapped off—well, it didn’t seem right.

  She whipped up in his mind, the first brutal memory as sudden and insistent as a bee sting. She was yelling at him. “The Wizard’s soldiers kidnapped the whole family and left you behind? Because you were useless? And you followed after them anyway, and they still managed to elude you? Are you useless?” Even then he had known she was less angry at him than frightened at what had befallen the other residents of the castle while she was away. Even then he had known she was relieved he’d been spared by virtue of being insignificant. Even then he’d smarted at the rebuke of the term. Useless.

  “I’ll take the broom,” said Liir at last. “She can be buried with it.”

  “I need it, to prove she’s dead,” said Dorothy. “What else would do?”

  “I’ll carry it for you then,” he said.

  “You’re coming with me?”

  He looked around. The courtyard of the castle was more silent than he’d ever seen it. The Witch’s crows were dead, her wolves, her bees. The winged monkeys were huddled on top of the woodshed, paralyzed with grief. With the Arjiki villagers in the settlement of Red Windmill down the slope, or scattered in cottages on the leeward side of the mountain, Liir had had little contact.

  So there was nothing to keep him in Kiamo Ko but Nanny. And old as she was, she would soon lapse into her usual fog of deafness and abstraction. In a week she would forget that the Witch had died. Besides, even in her best days she’d never known where Liir had come from. Neither had she seemed to care. So it was no hardship to leave her.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said. “Yes. And I’ll carry the broom.”

  It was too late to leave now, so they busied themselves instead. Liir fed the monkeys. Dorothy tried to make a meal for Nanny, who wept and said she wasn’t hungry and then ate all her portion and the Lion’s besides.

  After washing up, Dorothy settled cozily in the crook of the Lion’s neck, as much to calm him as to take comfort herself. Liir climbed to the Witch’s room and looked about. Already it was as if she had never lived there.

  He thought of the Grimmerie, that perplexing book of magic. He had never been able to read it. Wherever the Witch had put it last, he let it be. No matter. No Flying Monkey would be able to gibber a spell out of it, and Nanny’s eyesight was too poor to decipher its odd scrambling text. It would be too heavy to carry, anyway.

  Books have their own life, he thought. Let it take care of itself.

  Turning to leave, he caught sight of Elphaba’s black cape. A bit worse for wear, its hems threadbare, its collar much sampled by moths. Still, it was thick, and the days would only get colder. He put it over his narrow shoulders. It was far too large for him, so he looped the ends around his forearms. He looked, he supposed, like a small silly bat with an oversize wingspan. He didn’t care.

  The horizon was frosted with a greenish smear, as if ranks of campfires from distant tribes had divined the news already and were burning an homage to Elphaba before the sun could set on the day of her death.

  He could smell her in the collar of the cape, and he wept for the first time.

  LIIR DIDN’T BOTHER to say good-bye to Chistery. Let the Witch’s most beloved Flying Monkey take care of himself now. Why else had she taught him language, but so that he could keen when she was gone?

  On the road, the Lion and that little yapper, Toto, lagged behind with the other two who had been waiting for Dorothy—the Scarecrow, the man of tin—both of whom gave Liir a serious case of the creeps. The wind was brutal and the streaky clouds massed to the east, and if Liir wasn’t mistaken, before long rain would fall.

  Dorothy asked perfunctory questions, but she was more interested in making sure they didn’t lose their way. How would he know if they went off course, he asked her—it had been seven or eight years since he’d come from the mauntery with Elphaba, and he’d never left the neighborhood of Kiamo Ko in all the time since. Dorothy had much more recent experience of the greater landscape.

  “Yes, well, those Flying Monkeys carried me the last bit,” she said
nervously, “and I can’t claim to have had my wits about me enough to have taken note of landmarks. Still, we’re going downslope, and that’s got to be right.”

  “Everything is downslope of Kiamo Ko,” Liir told her.

  “I like your confidence,” she said. “Tell me about yourself, then.”

  He suspected his memories of young childhood were like anyone else’s: imprecise, suggestible, and largely devoid of emotion. He didn’t recall defining moments—maybe there weren’t any—but he did remember the sensation of things. The shafts of light slanting through the mullioned windows high up in the gallery, pinning silent maunts to their silent shadows on the stone floor. The smell of asparagus cream soup, a little maple syrup drizzled on top. The smell of snow in the air. Liir had been attached to Elphaba, somehow, he remembered that: he’d been allowed to play with his broken wooden ducky in the same room where she sat and spun wool.

  “Was she your mother?” asked Dorothy. “I’m terribly sorry to have killed her if she was. I mean I’m sorry anyway, but more so if you were related.”

  The girl’s directness was puzzling, and Liir wasn’t used to it. The Witch had never hidden her emotions, but nor had she explained them, and in many ways living with her had been like sharing an apartment with an ill-tempered house pet.

  He tried to be honest, but there was so much he didn’t know. “I started out with her,” he said. “How, as a toddler, I came to be among the maunts, I can’t say. No one has ever told me, and the Witch wouldn’t talk about it. I remember other women from those times, Sister Cupboard and Sister Orchard, and some of the more playful ones, the novices, who kept their own names, Sister Saint Grayce, and Sister Linnet. But when it came time for Elphaba to leave, they wrapped up my small packet of clothes, too, and I was lifted up to a seat on a wagon, and we joined a party that went through the Kells, stopping here and there until we got to Kiamo Ko.”

  “It’s awfully out of the way,” said Dorothy, looking around at the unpeopled slopes of pine and potterpine, and the slides of scree, and the scraggles of mountain lavender going to seed.

  “She wanted to be out of the way. And besides, it’s where Fiyero had lived.”

  “Your father?”

  Liir was as doubtful of his paternity as he was of his maternity. “He had meant something to her, to the Witch,” he pointed out. “But what, I don’t know. I never met him. Can you imagine the Witch would sit down and pour out her heart to me?”

  “I can’t imagine anything about her. Who could?”

  He didn’t want to talk anymore. The death was too recent, the shock of it was beginning to wear off, and what began to show through was anger. “In a general sense, we’re going southwest, and then we’ll cut east through Kumbricia’s Pass,” he said. “I’ve learned that much by listening to Oatsie Manglehand when she comes through guiding a party. There are tribes around and about.”

  “We saw no one,” said Dorothy, “not for miles.”

  “They saw you,” said Liir. “They had to. That’s what they do.”

  “Not nice, to be spying on us. We’re very chummy,” she said, putting on an aggressively friendly face. Any party of scouts witnessing it would do well to keep themselves hidden.

  Before long the rain came, and he was glad, for it stopped their conversation, which had turned into prattle. A heavy rain, the drops like pebbles. He could see no shepherd’s hut out here, not even a clump of mountain arbor to shelter beneath. So rather than sit in the mud and let the rain wick through their undergarments, they trudged on.

  Their confidence about their course ebbed, though, what with the shrouding of hilltops—all landmarks wiped out of view.

  “Liir, I have no confidence in your sense of direction,” said the Tin Woodman, politely.

  “Nick Chopper! You’re heartless!” said Dorothy.

  “Ha bloody ha. And you’re an orphan,” he replied. “I’ll rust in this downpour. Does anyone think of that? No.”

  “Don’t carp. I don’t deal well with conflict,” said the Lion. “Let’s sing a song.”

  “No,” they all chorused.

  “What’ll you do when you find yourself courageous—assuming the Wizard grants you what you wish?” asked the Scarecrow, to change the subject.

  “Invest in the market? Join a troupe of music hall buskers? How the hell do I know?” said the Lion. “Strike out on my own, anyway, and find a better class of associates. More simpatico.”

  “You?” asked the Scarecrow of the Tin Woodman.

  “What will I do if I find myself with a heart?” scoffed the Tin Woodman. “Lose it constantly, I imagine.”

  They slopped on. Liir didn’t think it was his place to continue the conversation, since he hadn’t been present at their initial audience with the Wizard. When no one else spoke, though, he said, “Well, Scarecrow, your turn. What’ll you do with your brains?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” he answered, and would not discuss it further.

  “Oh, Toto!” shrieked Dorothy suddenly. “Where’s Toto?”

  “He’s wandered off to do his business,” said the Lion. “Just between you and me, it’s about time he learned to be private about it. I know you dote on him, but there is a limit.”

  “He’ll be lost,” she cried. “He couldn’t find his way out of a cracker barrel. He’s not very bright, you know.”

  After a respectful pause, the Tin Woodman observed, “I think we’ve all noticed that.”

  “I hate to be obvious,” added the Scarecrow, “but you’d have saved yourself a heap of trouble if you weren’t too cheap to invest in a leash, Dorothy.”

  “There he is,” she cried, pitching up a small slope.

  The clueless creature was finishing his evacuation at the base of what looked like an ancient traveler’s shrine to Lurline. A weathered statue of the pagan goddess gazed blindly out into the storm. The statue was life-size, if you accepted that goddesses have the same stature as humans. Little more than a lean-to for protecting the statue from the elements, the structure could afford no room for the travelers to crawl in out of the downpour. After a while, though, Liir thought of standing on the shoulders of the Lion and slinging the big black cape out over the shrine’s roof. Using the scorched remains of the Witch’s broom as a pole, he rigged up a black tent under which they could huddle. The Lion’s mane reeked, but at least the travelers were protected from the worst of the rain.

  “This cape is larger than it looks,” said Dorothy. “And the water isn’t soaking through.”

  “Maybe she hexed it waterproof. She didn’t like water,” said Liir.

  “So I’ve learned,” said Dorothy.

  “Who does?” added the Tin Woodman, squeaking his joints.

  “Tell me more about her,” continued Dorothy.

  Liir didn’t oblige. He found Dorothy congenial enough—but it had been so long since he’d had anything like friends his own age! At Kiamo Ko, when he’d first arrived with Elphaba, Fiyero’s three children had allowed him into their small society, but slackly, without much interest. The girl, Nor, had been the only one ever really to play with him. Though he had been little more to Nor than that dog was to Dorothy, a presence to boss around, Nor had been kind. That first Lurlinemas, she’d given him the tail of her gingerbread mouse, because no one had thought to make him a gingerbread mouse of his own.

  And besides her? No one else to play with, once she and Irji and the rest of the ruling family—Fiyero’s survivors—had been kidnapped by the Wizard’s forces garrisoned at Red Windmill. Yes, he’d bravely followed, but fecklessly. They’d given him the slip. He had had to return to Kiamo Ko and face the screeching. Then the Witch had prohibited Liir from fraternizing any longer with Commander Cherrystone of the Gale Forcers or from making new friends among the lice-ridden urchins of Red Windmill.

  So Liir had lived a lonely life. It could have been worse; he was fed and he was clothed more or less warmly. He had his chores, and the winged monkeys, largely inarticulate, at le
ast didn’t go out of their way to move if he sat down nearby. Was there supposed to be more to a childhood? Rehearsing it to tell Dorothy, it seemed a spare, botched thing, and he suppressed most of it.

  Of late, the Witch had become more irritable than usual, complaining of sleeping problems. Nanny—her nanny, at one point, and her mother’s nanny before that—was well into her eighties and good for little by way of coherent discussion. Liir had been left to talk to himself, and he’d found himself less than stimulating as a conversationalist.

  Dorothy’s curiosity seemed flat to him, though, perhaps artificial. He wasn’t able to tell if she was really curious about his life, about the Witch, or if she was just marking time. Maybe steeling her own nerve by hearing the sound of her voice. He felt leery. Perhaps, the son of the Witch or no, he had inherited from exposure to Elphaba a mild sense of paranoia, as if everyone were after some scrap of vital information that they were unwilling to ask for directly.

  He fussed and rolled his eyes and tried to imagine how to change the subject. He didn’t want to talk about his toddler days in the mauntery or his boyhood in Kiamo Ko. He was bereft of family, now, something of a hanger-on to Dorothy’s party, something of a guide without a clue out here in the cruel terrain. He just wanted to concentrate on the job.

  He was glad, therefore, when the Lion started and said, “What’s that?”

  “It’s night coming on,” said the Tin Woodman.

  “Night coming on makes a sound like the Crack of Doom?” complained the Lion. “Never did before. Shhh, everyone. It wasn’t thunder. What was it? Shhh, I tell you.”

  The Tin Woodman observed, “You’re the only one who’s talking—”

  “Shhh, I said!”

  They shhhushed.

  The downpour made a symphony. An undertone of susurrus—rain at mid-distance—accompanied the solo vocalists rounding vowels of rainwater—plopp—plopp—or, as Liir thought, of Auntie Witch, Elphaba Thropp—Thropp—Thropp.