She turned to the boy who was sitting beside the freckled effigy on the opposite side of the wagon—the one who had warned her of the wagon’s enchantment. He was holding an ax and looking at Glinda with raised eyebrows. Dressed in various shades of blue, he had twinkling eyes and a charming smile. “Nick Chopper,” he said, by way of introduction. “Of Munchkin Country.”
“Glinda.”
“Pleased to acquaint ourselves,” said Nick. “Circumstances could be better, of course.”
When the boy reached up to tip the blue conical hat he wore, Glinda noticed with alarm that his left hand was made of tin. On closer inspection, she discovered that his entire arm had been fashioned of tin as well, and so had both of his legs.
She eyed his ax. “Are you dangerous?”
“Only to trees,” he said. “And myself. I came to Quadling to escape Ava Munch, the Wicked Witch of the East. Figured it was just a matter of time before I found myself at the mercy of her Terror Gaze.”
“Her what?”
“Never mind. Better not to fill your head with such an image. Besides, Ava has other spells that are almost as bad.” Nick flexed his metal arm so that it shone in the sunshine. “She put one on me and my ax. It’s the reason I’m mostly tin. Every time I use my ax, I chop myself to bits.”
“That’s horrible!”
Nick shrugged, as though he’d become used to the idea of turning to metal. “At least I’ve been able to stay one step ahead of her Wickedness by replacing my missing limbs with tin ones. So as not to disappear completely.”
To Glinda this seemed like small comfort indeed.
She slid a glance at her mother. Still chanting. Still rocking. She sighed and turned back to Nick.
“Why Quadling?” she asked. “Why not Winkie, or Gillikin?”
“There’s a legend that says there’s only one way to vanquish Ava Munch. It has something to do with the wind, although I can’t imagine how a wind, even a stiff one, even a gale, could destroy a Witch as powerful as Munch. In any case, the folklore suggests that whatever it is, it’s hidden somewhere in Quadling. I’m here because I’d be doing all of Munchkin Country a favor if I could find the thing to destroy our Royal Tyrant.” He gave Glinda a sheepish look. “I suppose you think I’m a bit of a miscreant for wanting to destroy the Witch of the East.”
A day ago, Glinda would have surely answered yes. But she wasn’t sure anymore. “Wrong” suddenly seemed more difficult to pin down. And “right” was now completely up for grabs. Finally she shook her head. “She’s done a horrible thing to you. She must be very Wicked indeed.”
The cart sped onward until they had left the township far behind. The road wound along the edge of the Woebegone Wilderness. Although the dense, mysterious forest was not exactly forbidden, it was a place Glinda had intentionally avoided all her life.
Through the trees of the Woebegone, Glinda caught a glimpse of Aphidina’s castle. It was by anyone’s standards an architectural marvel, a cross between a magnificent edifice and an oversized root vegetable; part plant, part palace.
Spreading out around it was the Perilous Pasture, its soil the color of fresh scabs. Whatever the Witch had grown there had already been harvested, and judging by the size of the hole left in the ground, it had been a crop of something gigantic.
Nick was eyeing Tilda, who was rocking faster now. “Is she all right?”
“I honestly don’t know,” said Glinda, her voice catching in her throat. “I’ve never seen her like this before. I can’t imagine what she’s doing.”
Nick considered his fellow prisoner as she continued to chant, her words coming more quickly, and louder as well. “If I didn’t know better,” he whispered, “I’d say she was summoning.”
Without warning, the wagon wheels screeched to a violent halt, the horses snorting and whinnying as Bog jerked hard on the reins. Glinda and Nick were knocked from the narrow bench; Haley Poppet flew out of Glinda’s pocket and went skidding across the splintery planks of the wagon floor.
Tilda stopped rocking abruptly.
“What’s happening?” asked Glinda.
“Something in the road ahead,” said Nick, pointing. “A girl!”
Glinda looked. Then she gasped.
Purple curls . . . knee breeches . . . wrist cuffs.
Locasta!
14
WITHIN AND WITHOUT
Git outta the road!” growled the seeping muck mass that was Bog. “Or I’ll run ya over.”
Locasta did not budge.
As the bounty hunter raised his whip to make good on his threat, a deep roar exploded from the woods and Clumsy Bear careened out of the forest, spooking the horses; they pranced and bucked, eyes wild, nostrils flaring.
“Control your mounts!” Bog commanded, but no amount of spurring or snapping of riding crops could calm the frightened horses. One reared up, throwing his rider into the trees. The other gave a panicked neigh and bolted, his soldier clutching the saddle for dear life.
Clumsy went straight for the driver’s box, hurling his furry self as if he’d been shot from a cannon. Bog’s muddiness was no match for the ballast of a full-grown bear. The attack sent him flying out of his seat like a rag doll.
Rag doll! Glinda tore her eyes from the commotion to search the wagon floor for Haley Poppet, only to find that Tilda was already tucking the doll into Glinda’s pocket with her bound hands.
With Bog pinned under the weight of the tremendous bear, Locasta approached the wagon. Her blazing amethyst eyes went directly to Glinda. “You?”
“Yes, me!”
“Who are you?”
“She is Glinda,” said Tilda. “My daughter.”
Locasta frowned at Nick Chopper, who gave her a wink and tipped his pointed hat.
“Are you a Sorcerer?” she demanded. “A Wizard?”
“Woodcutter,” said Nick. “Sorry.”
Locasta rolled her eyes and turned an anxious expression to Tilda. “I need to get you to the Makewright’s cabin . . . now!”
“There’s powerful Magic trapping us in,” said Nick. To prove it, he swung his fist, then jerked it back with a wince, rubbing the burn from his knuckles.
“Mistress Gavaria,” cried Locasta, “can you uncharm the wagon?”
Hope surged in Glinda. “Of course she can! She’s a powerful Sorceress.” She reached for the rope that tied her mother’s hands, frantically pulling at the knot. It held tight.
“Let me try my ax,” Nick offered, putting the lethal edge to the rope. Still the binds would not be severed.
“Glinda,” said Tilda, her tone urgent. “Remember what Nick said. The Magic of this wagon can only be breached from without.”
“If that’s so, then we have no chance of escaping!” Glinda’s trembling fingers again gouged hopelessly at the knot.
“Think,” said Tilda. “Think of what you must do.”
“Why can’t you just tell me what to do?” Glinda shrieked.
“Because this must be your Magic. Now, just reflect upon how you discovered me in the yard last night and find the answer within yourself! Or perhaps, without.”
Glinda covered her ears to muffle the splat of Bog’s fists pummeling Clumsy. Closing her eyes, she saw herself awaking into the gleam of moonlight. Her mother was outside in the yard, and also in the room, somehow, but not really. Tilda’s image had been reflected in the looking glass above the dresser. Within and without.
“The mirror!” Glinda turned to Locasta. “Miss Gage’s mirror!”
Locasta reached into her pocket and withdrew the delicate compact.
“Open it,” Glinda commanded. “Hurry! Now hold it so my mother can see herself.”
Locasta obeyed, aiming the reflective surface at Tilda. Glinda could see her mother’s image captured in the silvery circle. Just as she had imagined Tilda both inside and outside in the dream, it was now as if Tilda were at the same time inside and outside the Magical prison wagon.
Locasta saw it too. She quic
kly tilted the mirror downward so that Tilda’s hands were reflected. Tilda pressed her palms together, her fingertips pointed at the invisible boundary that separated the three captives from freedom. Slowly she began to pull her hands apart. In the mirror, her reflection did the same.
“It’s working!” Glinda cried, sensing a gap beginning to form in the invisible wall. “Mother, just a little wider, and we’ll all fit through. . . .”
But the ropes would not allow Tilda’s hands to open any farther.
“Mistress Gavaria, please!” Locasta implored. “You must squeeze through the space. You must escape.”
There was another gurgling huff from Bog, and a growl from the bear. Clumsy was weakening, and Glinda could see that it was only a matter of seconds before Bog freed himself.
Tilda gave Glinda a mighty shove that sent her through the gap in the Magic; she landed on her hands and knees at Locasta’s booted feet. Tilda did the same to Nick, who rolled to the edge of the road, clutching his ax.
“No!” screamed Locasta. “Not her! You! We need you!”
But Tilda had already lowered her hands, closing the broken place in the invisible perimeter.
Nick pointed to the bounty hunter. “Bog’s freed himself,” he warned. “Better get going!” Then, with a farewell wave of his ax, he ran across the road and disappeared into the woods on the far side.
From behind the boundary of Wicked Magic, Tilda looked from her daughter to the girl with the purple curls and whispered, “Unite.” Then she began to sing:
“As fire seeks a place to burn,
In seeking strength, no stone unturn,
A perfect fit must be achieved
For this bright flame to be conceived.
Wisdom waits, where shadows fall.
A friend, like truth, can conquer all.”
“You have to go!” Tilda instructed. “Both of you. Run! Run!”
“You heard your mother,” Locasta cried. “Let’s get out of here!”
But Glinda could not bring herself to move.
With a roar that rivaled the bear’s, Locasta scooped Glinda up and tossed her over her shoulder like a sack of Quadling cotton. With one last, frustrated look at Tilda, Locasta took off into the cover of the Woebegone Wilderness.
On the opposite side of the road, Clumsy Bear stood wobbling on his hind legs, his sweet face filled with sadness as he raised one paw and waved good-bye.
Bog slopped back to the driver’s box and bellowed, “H’yah!”
The horses lurched forward. Glinda watched the wagon barrel along the road until the trees of the Woebegone swallowed up her view.
The bear, the bounty hunter, and her mother were gone.
15
THE WOEBEGONE
Glinda thought her ribs might splinter as she bounced and jostled on Locasta’s shoulder. “Put me down!”
“Why?” Locasta panted. “So you can run back to the road and let that smelly mud bucket make you his lunch?”
“Put. Me. Down!”
“Shut up!” Locasta commanded, and ran faster.
“But I don’t want to come with you to the Makewright’s cabin!”
Locasta stopped running and dumped Glinda onto her backside in a pile of rotting leaves. “And I don’t want you to come with me!” she shouted, standing above Glinda with her hands planted on her hips. “Not that you’d care, but I came a very long way to seek your mother’s assistance. Then she goes and summons me and that stumbly fur ball to rescue you!”
“It is a bit ironic,” Glinda allowed.
“No,” Locasta shot back with a scowl, “what’s ironic is that instead of a Grand Adept, I’m stuck with a little schoolgirl dressed up in ruffles”—her scathing gaze fell on Haley, peeking out above the hem of Glinda’s pocket—“who still plays with dolls!”
Her glare lingered on the poppet until the scowl gave way to a grin, then a chuckle. The next thing Glinda knew, the purple-haired girl was doubled over, clutching her sides in an effort to catch her breath.
“There’s no need to laugh at me!” Glinda snapped.
“Oh yes there is!”
“And I don’t play with her. I simply”—Glinda searched for the accurate word—“cherish her.”
Locasta laughed harder.
Just then a sudden gust of wind encircled Locasta, lifting the long, plum-colored curls off her shoulders and scattering leaves.
“Where did that come from?” asked Glinda.
“Who knows?” Locasta was still almost breathless with laughter. “Maybe we’ve stumbled into a fairy lair and that’s what happens when the Wards of Lurl decide to tickle the lesser spirits of the air. Or maybe it’s just a windy day!”
“Oh,” said Glinda, aching to ask what a Ward of Lurl was but fearing the question would just earn her more ridicule.
“Let’s go,” said Locasta. “The Makewright’s cabin is just through those trees on the other side of the Whoa! Be Gone Wilderness.”
It was Glinda’s turn to chuckle. “It’s not ‘Whoa! Be Gone,’ it’s ‘Woebegone,’ as in sad and miserable.”
“Yeah, well, you say it your way, and I’ll hear it mine,” Locasta retorted. “Maybe you need to start listening to the world a little more carefully, Glindy.”
“Glinda.”
“The point is, I know a warning when I hear one. ‘Whoa! Be gone’ means ‘Stop and turn back.’ ”
Glinda stood up and brushed the dirt from her backside. “Which is exactly what I’m going to do. There’s no reason for me to join you at the Makewright’s cabin. I need to get to Maud’s cottage, like my mother said.”
“Who’s Maud?”
“She’s a Seamstress.”
Locasta cocked an eyebrow. “Are you having some kind of hemline emergency?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” said Glinda. She looked around in an effort to get her bearings. “Do you happen to know the way back to the road?” she asked tightly.
“I don’t,” said Locasta. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Glinda’s eyes narrowed, and she stared at the girl in disbelief.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that! I’m trying to help you. You just escaped the bounty hunter, remember? You’re a fugitive now. If you set foot on that road, you’ll be scooped up by the Witch’s soldiers in no time.”
Glinda hadn’t thought of that. “Then how am I going to get to Maud’s?”
Locasta folded her arms across her chest. “Sounds like you’ve got a problem.”
Ignoring the Gillikin’s superior look, Glinda glanced from one unremarkable tree trunk to another as she tried to remember the direction from which they’d come.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting my bearings. So I can find my way out.”
Locasta snorted. “What part of the word ‘fugitive’ do you not understand?”
“I have to get to Maud’s!”
“Suit yourself,” said Locasta. “I certainly have no need of your company!”
“And I have no need of yours!”
“Good luck with your Seamstress.”
Glinda began marching north.
Or perhaps it was east.
She turned and took three long strides west.
Or perhaps south.
This was not good. Around her the Woebegone Wilderness spread out in all directions. Indeed, it did seem to be shouting from every crust of lichen and dying fern, “Whoa! Be gone!”
If only she could.
Defeated, she dropped her gaze to the forest floor. Her only hope was to go with Locasta to the Makewright’s cabin.
“All right,” she said, her eyes trained on the mossy ground. “I shall go with you to the Maker’s lodge.”
When no reply came from Locasta, Glinda choked down her pride and tried again. “I will try not to be a bother if you’ll . . .” She sighed, digging the toe of her boot into the dirt. “If you’ll please just let me come along with you.”
Again, silence.
/> Glinda felt her fists clenching. She’s going to make me beg!
With an apology poised upon her lips, she snapped her head up to look Locasta in the face.
But Locasta was nowhere to be seen.
Glinda’s chest seized with panic. She was lost and alone in the Woebegone Wilderness!
With no other thought in her head beyond escape, she took off, barreling through the brushwood, dodging pricker vines and hurdling swampy puddles. She had no idea where she was heading.
She ran until her boot caught on a stone and she crashed forward, landing so hard it took her breath away. There she lay, facedown in the dead leaves, wishing for a trail to follow. And as she did, she recalled what her mother had said:
Magic is a part of you . . . your proper pathway beckons you always.
Glinda stood up slowly, allowing the words to calm her, and took a step. As she did, up from the mossy floor of the wilderness sprang a road.
A Road of Red Cobble.
16
INTERROGATION BY SLUG
The candlelit room was like a thicket of prickly weeds and briars that tore at Tilda’s clothes. Stalks wrapped around her ankles and held her fast; one slick vine snaked into her hair. Her wrists remained bound by Bog’s enchanted ropes.
She had been dragged through the castle by the bounty hunter and flung before the Haunting Harvester. Bog stood beside the Grand Adept now, drooling muck and dripping mud in puddles on the floor.
Upon her throne, Aphidina cocked her head and raised her fine brows, studying the prisoner intently. “Well done, Bog,” she said.
Tilda felt him swell a bit; his pride had a foul stench, but she did not allow herself to gag or even wrinkle her nose.
This was as close as any Foursworn had been to a Wicked since the day the Witches had seized power from the king. She knew it. The Witch knew it. Even Bog, whose brain was swamp gas, knew it.
Aphidina rose from her throne, clad in a gown of apple-red silk. In Quadling Country, only Aphidina and her favorites were permitted to wear such sumptuous fabrics. Rumor had it that when her silkworms had exhausted themselves, she ate them, dried, for breakfast.