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CHAPTER TWENTY
TO OZ: DAY TWO

I had entered The Comfortable Man's House from a wet, rainy forest. I exit into a broad reddish desert with low scrub and low hills. Lizard-like creatures dart to and fro in front of me.

With my next step, I am over the mountains, in a dark place. Twenty steps later, I am in a somewhat greener desert, with scattered fastigiate trees twice as tall as a man. According to the sevenhourglass, the daylight here persists for three-and-a-half hours.

I am walking under a night sky. The stars look very different from those at Agatha Farmer's place. Some of them are clearly not stars at all, but some other high-flying, glowing phenomenon. If they are fireflies, they must be huge, for they are very far away.

I stumble in my seven-league boots, and almost fall. I try to take a step, but some force holds me to the ground. It is as if I have stepped in a pool of glue. I struggle to take ordinary steps, but stumble again.

“Careful,” says a small voice. “If you fall, you’ll crush me.” There is irritation in the voice.

I check the dark forest floor, and see a little iridescent blue man among the leaves. He is smaller than my thumb.

“Your magic boots are useless here,” smirks the fairy-creature. “Everyone in the area is required to attend the King’s Banquet. If you don’t go soon--” he points to a fairy palace in the distance. “Your feet will carry you there on their own.”

“What can I expect at the King’s Banquet?” I ask. “I’m a stranger in these parts.”

“Are you? I never would have known,” the blue man sniggers. “The King’s Daughter is to be married, and he is so glad to be rid of her that he has summoned everyone in the Kingdom to a Banquet. A hundred and forty-four thousand guests, at seventy-seven palaces across the Kingdom. That pink one is ours. And the King and his daughter and her suitor will be magically present at each of them. Now I need to be moving, before my feet tear themselves off my ankles. I advise you to do the same.”

The little blue creature scurried away, faster than a mouse.

I point my feet towards the castle, and although the seven-league enchantment is still inoperative, I am able to walk normally in that direction. I am at the flagstones in the courtyard in less than an hour. There is quite a group around me, fairy races of all sizes and descriptions.

“At least we’re bound to get a good meal, aye?” says a fellow right beside me. He is slightly taller than me, and much broader, especially in the belly. His skin is the color of red brick, and he appears to be clothed in nothing but a leather apron. He looks me up and down with cat’s-eyes.

“Never seen an ogre like you in these parts,” he mumbles through yellow tusks. “Four arms, and purple. Where do you hail from?”

“I’m from the human world, actually,” I admit.

“That explains the iron boots,” the ogre replies. “Are you under some sort of enchantment?”

“No, this is my natural form,” I reply. “The human world is pretty diverse these days.”

“Bronk Bloodtooth is my name,” the ogre introduces himself. “I pretty much live by myself; don’t really know anyone in this crowd. I’ll sit with you, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” I reply. “I’m called Strebor, although the witch I used to work for named me Johnny Four-Arms.”

“I’ll call you Johnny, then,” Bronk Bloodtooth laughs. “Johnny from the Mundane World. Just don’t step on anyone’s toes with those iron boots.”

The palace appears to be made of pink granite, studded here and there with rubies. The interior is hung with rich tapestries over shining white alabaster walls. There are at least a hundred polished wooden tables, set with crystal goblets, gold and silver platters, and gold and silver tableware. There are more forks and knives and spoons than I can comfortably identify. On a shining dais in the middle of the room sits a tall, handsome elf-man in kingly robes. On his right hand is another elf, dressed somewhat less extravagantly, and on his left, a beautiful elf princess.

“Welcome, all,” declares the king, and his voice echoes throughout the banquet hall. “Today we celebrate the engagement of my daughter, the Princess Radanta to Prince Eireachdail of the Far Countries.”

Prince Eireachdail now stands.

“O King, I have come from afar to woo your daughter. Not only is she as beautiful as the sun, but she has a wonderful grace in all she says and does. She sings like the nightingale, dances like a flower on the wind, composes such music as has never been heard, and has the cleverness and wit of an angel. She is so far above me that I fear she will never deign to look at me, but if it is the Princess’ will, I will be her consort ever after.”

“Ooh, father, I like this one,” says the Princess.

“Two were never more deserving of one another,” Bronk Bloodtooth sniggers. “Know what I mean?”

The servants now fill the gold and silver platters to overflowing with the most appetizing food, and the guests dig in. My companion does not partake, but merely sips from his wine glass.

“I have a very restricted diet,” explains Bronk Bloodtooth. “You never know what they are serving at these fairy feasts.”

I discreetly swipe some of the Ointment of True Sight I received at the Comfortable Man’s house across my eyelids. The scene changes.

We are still in a grand palace, but the walls are plain grey stone. The tapestries are tattered and mildewed. The tables are the same rough stone, the plates and tableware are wooden, and the food is a slop of overcooked and unidentifiable vegetables. My companion is unchanged, but many of the fairies seated throughout the hall are completely altered in appearance. Their faces are more monkey-like, their bodies more ill-formed. The magic which projected the images of the royal trio is no longer visible. My other senses are affected as well. Voices that were once musical are now only growls and hisses; the appetizing perfume of the meal is replaced with the scent of rot. The goblets of wine are crude wooden cups of water.

I suddenly lose my appetite.

The ointment wears off by the time of the entertainment. I can only imagine what the chamber music sounds like without glamour.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TO OZ: DAY THREE

The seven-hour glass tells me that it has been twenty-eight hours since I left the home of the Comfortable Man. It is pre-dawn as we leave the King’s Banquet.

“It is a day’s journey home for me,” laments Bronk Bloodtooth.

“I have much farther to go,” I tell him. “But I can afford a small detour. “Can I give you a lift?” I indicate my seven-league boots.

“I’ve never traveled by magicked iron,” says Bronk. “I’m not sure I want to now.”

“Which direction is home?” I ask.

Bronk rolls his eyes, and points. As I am in my Branx form, it is easy to heft the massive ogre onto my shoulder. I take one step in the right direction.

Bronk looks around, getting his bearings. “We’re less than a tenth of a league from my glen,” he says, indicating another direction. We head off. It will take about fifteen minutes to get there.

“I’m part of the King’s Guard,” Bronk boasts. “Of course, there was no need for us during the Banquet. The King’s magicians not only placed a spell compelling everyone the entire country to attend, but also laid a geas of peace on everyone. If there were any foreign invaders within our borders, they attended the Banquet as well.” He chuckled gurglingly.
We are in a broad meadow at the top of a high hill, overlooking a broad valley full of sheep and cattle. Even from this distance the pungent scent of fresh manure wafts up through the air.

“My herds,” explains Bronk Bloodtooth. “Us ogres are pure meat-eaters.”

There is a large pot full of boiling meat hanging over a low fire. Bronk tosses a couple of sticks into the dying embers..

“Couldn’t eat that vegetable slop at the Banquet,” Bronk grouses, hefting a large portion of much-boiled meat onto a stone plate. “I noticed you didn’t partake much, either. Join me?”

The meat seems to be something like beef, highly salted. It is not too bad, and being hungry makes it all the more palatable.

“I do prefer my meat roasted,” says Bronk, prepping a massive rotating grill, and starting another fire. “But I always keep a pot boiling, too.” The glade is full of stacks of wood, well-used cooking utensils, a great oven, the large pot, a rough barbecue setup, and the grill. A small, nearby waterfall provides all the water one could need. There are high stone tables, but no chairs. All in all, it looks like a huge, outdoor kitchen. There is no house or cottage, I don’t know where or if the ogre sleeps.

“Ordinarily, I would go down and grab a steer, or a couple of sheep,” says Bronk. “But since there is meat so near a hand…” He grabs my head, and bashes it against a tree. “The sun is up now, and the geas against violence has expired.”

I have trained on Tharn in the Martial Arts by Sensei, but I admit I am a poor student. I try to recall his advice.

“The pain of losing your head is the same, whether you die in a blaze of glory, or whether your enemy cuts off your head when you aren’t looking.”

This is unhelpful. I am struggling with an opponent who intends to roast me for second breakfast.

“As a master of the martial arts, I do not fight in order to win or lose. I do not think of strength or weakness. I do not advance or retreat a step. The enemy does not see me. I do not see the enemy.” -- The Way of the Sohei

Bronk Bloodtooth is strangling me. I am past the point of seeing spots. My vision is starting to cloud.

“You are a tough one,” admits the ogre. “I’m really working up an appetite.”

It occurs to me that the ogre must always be thinking about his next meal. He has just finished breakfast, and is already preparing for his next meal. The world goes black.

I awaken to find Bronk Bloodtooth high up in one of the trees. I have a good view, as I am lying on my back. He is wrapped in thick branches, struggling.

There is a small noise by my left ear. It is Modesty, the little magical pixie I summoned at Agatha’s cottage.

“You did this?” I ask.

“I said, ‘Fly, you fool,’” repeats the pixie.

I pull myself upright, and in a single step I am seven leagues away.

o o o

I am hungry. I stop in the middle of another shady glen to eat some of the never-ending bread and cheese.

“Modesty?” I call into the air. “Have you been following me all this time?”

There is nothing but silence.

I want to change back into human form, but that requires night-time, a bed, and a fire. The only thing to do is push on.

The seven-hour glass marks another seven hours before I find night-time again. It is a small, sandy beach, and I find enough driftwood to build a fire. I toss in my coat, and find a comfortable spot to sleep under my Extensible Stragulum.

By morning, the fire has burned out, and my patchwork coat is lying next to my head. I put it on, and metamorphose into my four-armed human form.

There is a flash of white out in the water.

The sun- one of Faeryland’s many suns- is just rising. The water glistens bright silver and blue. There is a woman not too far from shore, bathing. At the moment, the water is up to her neck, and she is washing her hair. She turns and locks eyes with me, and begins walking up to the beach. She is incredibly attractive, even beautiful. I find it hard to tear my eyes away. I reach for Mr. Quando’s eye-salve, and attempt to surreptitiously wipe it on my eyes. She is still beautiful, but now no more than a mundane super-model.

She dons a loose robe hanging from a low bush, and comes over to speak to me.

“You must speak the truth, or I will know,” she says. “Who are you, and from where do you hail?”

“I am called Four-Armed Johnny, and most recently, I come from an Ogre’s glen, from which I barely escaped with my life.”

“Keep talking,” she says. It is not merely a command, but some sort of spell.

“Originally, I come from the human world,” I say. “But I have journeyed long, and seen many places. It sometimes seems to me that I have lived many lives as well. Should I continue with my history?”

“It is enough,” says the beautiful woman. “I give you neither my name nor my history, but you will come with me, and I will provide you food and rest for the day.”

This, too, is a spell of some kind, and I am compelled to follow her.

“May I call you Mystery?” I ask.

“I will give you neither my name nor my history, but you may call me what you like,” she replies.

As we walk, she comments on our surroundings. “How beautiful the trees”, “How fragrant the scent of the flowers”, “How sweetly sing the birds”. The eye-salve protects me from glamour, and yet it seems that she is almost calling our surroundings into existence around us. At last we come to a sprawling greenward, at the center of which is a single-storied estate. I catch the occasional glimpse of bustling servant-women, dressed in deep red. Beside a cobblestone path, just before the entrance to the house, stand a large bed with canopies of gold. A very old, dried and wizened man lies there. His breath comes in wheezes, punctuated by coughs.

“Hello, husband,” says the mystery woman tenderly. “It will not be long, now, I am sure.” She kisses him. The wheezing worsens. “Do not fear, I will find another after you are gone. Enjoy the golden sunlight. I will now show this young man our home, and all it possesses.”

“I am not so young as I appear,” I say.

“You appear to be some twelve centuries old,” she replies. “Is that not correct? But to one such as I, that is but a moment. This husband has attended me for a longer time, but is now old and worn out. Come with me, and let me show you how we have lived.”

There are perhaps a hundred rooms within the estate. I lose count quickly. The corridors twist and turn. There are elegant tapestries, chests of gold and precious stones, rooms with luxurious couches and thrones, several ornamented bedrooms, a grand kitchen and well-stocked larder. It is all completely real. As the eye-salve begins to wear off, I see that glamours have been placed on everything to make it appear even more rich and elegant and beautiful. There must be very few of the red-clad servants, as I see the same half-dozen over and over as we tour the house.

At last we come to a small wood-paneled chamber. A golden box sits on a silver table. There is nothing else here.

“Here is my greatest treasure,” she tells me, “Whose like is not to be found in the whole world. It is a precious gold ring; when you marry me, I will give you this ring as a marriage-gift, and it will make you the happiest of mortal men. But in order that our love may last forever, you must give me for the ring three drops of blood from the little finger of your left hand.”

This is no spell or command, but a cold shiver runs through me, and the hair on my arms stand up.

“No mortal is able to entirely understand the power of this ring,” she continues, “Because no one can thoroughly understand the signs engraven upon it. But even with my half-knowledge, I can teach you to work wonders.” She pauses, waiting for some response.

“This is a grand offer,” I reply. “I, like you, have been married before, and I take these things seriously. Let me stay here for a day before I give my answer.”

“Take as long as you like,” she replies. “Stay here as my guest for days, or weeks, or years. I have the patience of immortality. But know that I will be a widow again by next morning’s light, and free to marry again.”

There is a tapping on the door, and one of the red-dressed maids announces that luncheon is ready.

The meal is small but filling: soup and salad, sandwiches, and some sort of sharp, tangy golden juice. There is something familiar about this house and situation, but I cannot put my finger on it. I read a lot of fairy-tales when I was younger, and this reminds me of several of them.

We stroll the spacious grounds, and I am repeatedly reminded that if and when we marry, all this will belong to me. I ask if she travels, and she replies that she has seen much of Faeryland, as well as the mortal realm. She describes some of the places she has moved her grounds and estate, but she must always dwell by water, and there must be a moon in the sky at night.

Another of the maids finds us, and informs us that supper will soon be served. My mystery woman kisses me before we return to the house, and I almost agree to marry her right there.

Almost. But I have remembered what fairy-tale I am ensconced in.

On the way back to the house I explain that I require a fire before I retire to bed. During dinner, the sun sets, and I transform. My host starts in surprise.

“This is my true form,” I explain. “Not an ogre or troll, but a Branx Warrior from the non-magical realms. I need the fire each night to renew the enchantment on my cloak.”

“For a moment, I thought you were a demon,” she gasps. “But yes, I am familiar with such cloaks of transformation as you wear. We will certainly accommodate you.”

Later, I leave my mystery woman, and one of the red-cloaked servant-girls leads me to a private room. There is a luxurious bed, a roaring fire, and torches on the walls which burn with a blue-green flame. I get a good night's sleep, bathe in a tub of warm water in the bedroom, retrieve my cloak, and transform back into my Four-Armed Johnny form.

“My husband has passed away in the night,” says my host over an al fresco breakfast. The gold-canopied bed has been taken away. “We are free to marry at your discretion.”

“You are kind and generous, and I have enjoyed my stay here,” I reply. “But you are the Hoellen-Maedchen, the Witch-Maiden, and I cannot remain with you forever.” There is a shiver of release, as though I have been under a spell. “I will continue my journey as I have planned, and I am sure you can find another husband soon. My condolences on the passing of your late husband. But his soul is always with you, is it not?”

The Witch-Maiden smiles. “Another of my prized possessions. My hospitality has not changed. You may continue to stay as long as you like, and enjoy the same luxuries and pleasures. There are more you have not yet partaken of. Perhaps you will change your mind.”

“I thank you, but I think not,” I reply. “Allow me a dramatic exit.” I get my bearings with the Oz-compass, take a step-- and I am seven leagues away from the Hoellen-Maedchen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TO OZ: DAY FIVE

I do not often pass through cities, but today, I stop in the middle of one.

My seven-hour-glass tells me I have been travelling for seventeen-and-a-half hours. It is the middle of the day here, but I have walked long enough.

The buildings are sturdy, built of some sort of cement or concrete, decorated with rough stone. None is more than three stories high. The streets are broad, as wide as a four-lane highway, with high curbs, and grated storm drains. The streets are bustling with a wider variety of faerie-folk that I have ever seen together. I quickly spy some as small as eighteen inches, others nine feet tall. One uniformed nine-footer approaches me. He has three eyes and a bird’s beak.

“Where did you come from?” he asks.

I gesture at my shoes. “Seven-league boots,” I explain. “Although I would like to rest. I’ve been walking all day.”

“Well, if you’re from that far away, I doubt you have any of the local coinage,” says the officer.

“I have picked up a little silver and gold,” I offer.

“Not worth much here,” says the officer. “Thrallcoin is the medium of exchange in the City of Anaxagora. You might want to move on, or you might be able to earn a day’s wages. No promises, though.”

“What sort of work is it?” I ask. “I may want to move on, if it’s hard labor. I’m pretty tired. Tired enough to sleep in any woods nearby.”

“‘Nearby’ is an odd thing for one wearing seven-league boots to say,” says the officer. “But a quick trip to the city center might have you sorted out without too much trouble. Come with me.”

I follow the brute to a large central plaza, where eight roads intersect. We take the shortest one, which quickly dead-ends at a small cottage, no larger than Agatha’s.

Human-looking, but still definitely Faery, the inhabitant of the cottage answered the door. She extended her hand graciously.

“I am Anaxagora,” she purrs. “Welcome to my City.”

I am treated to what is, to all appearances, a very English tea service. Cakes, small sandwiches, and cups of some fragrant, delicious hot beverage that is almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea.

“My Constable has brought you here because you are destitute, and seek to earn a day’s worth of Thrallcoin. This will allow you to stay in a room in one of our inns, and allow you to buy a day’s worth of meals. The alternative is walking your seven-league boots, and camping in some field somewhere. The favor I ask for you in return is simple: allow me to copy you.”

“I am not sure what you mean,” I say, in the middle of appreciating a particularly delicious scone.

She gestures widely. “All the inhabitants of my City are my creations. I have the magical ability to create a Thrall, one once each day. Or to destroy one Thrall, once each day. They are all more-or-less independent, with one level or another of free will, but all of them love me, and happily and graciously serve me. Most have some magical power of their own. I have created thousands over the years, from my Constable, to the little birds that bring me news of visitors to my City. I am always grateful to meet new people, because it allows the possibility of creating someone new to inhabit my little City, someone I had not conceived from my own imagination. However, I do not wish to create a duplicate of you without your permission.”

“But you could,” I intuit. “Whether I agreed or not.”

“Yes, but I rather object to that on personal moral grounds. Besides, if you will share with me your characteristics and abilities, I can more exactly replicate you.”

“And for my agreement, you would allow me a comfortable stay in your city for a single day.”

“That is correct.”

“And you have already used your power early this morning, so would like me to stay another day so that you can replicate me tomorrow.”

“You are clever,” Anaxagora laughs. “A wonderful characteristic. I shall include it in your Thrall-twin.”

“Clever enough to be suspicious of your offer,” I reply. “I am unfamiliar with how your magic works, and I have had sufficient experience with enchantment to know there are often unpleasant side-effects. We do not know one another, and I have no reason to trust you at your word.”

“Perhaps you could talk to my Thralls? They would affirm that I speak the truth, and have no ulterior motive.”

“I am sure they would,” I reply. “But how could I be sure they have my best interests at heart, when they are so devoted to you?”

“She’s telling the truth,” says Modesty. She has appeared among the sandwich plates in a sprinkle of golden glitter. “I checked with the aldermen of a nearby hamlet, and they’ve heard of Anaxagora. She’s been here over a century, Her magic is harmless. Her Thralls cannot even survive very far from this city. I would let her copy me.”

“Oh, no, I have enough pixies,” says Anaxagora. “You can find them all over Faeryland.’

Modesty stuck out her tongue. “You ought to let him stay in town for two days,” says Modesty. He’s got another form. You could copy that one, too.”

I sigh at Modesty’s indiscrete garrulousness. I stand, taking off the patchwork coat.

Anaxagora’s eyes lit up. “Oh, my,” she said. “I’ve made four-armed men before, but I’ve never seen a creature like this.”

“I have no real magical abilities,” I explain. “This is my true form: the disguise magic is in the coat. And I am equally strong, and equally intelligent, in either form. The charm does have to be renewed regularly by tossing the coat into a fire as I sleep; that is why I need a room with a fireplace.”

“Would you stay two days?” Anaxagora begs. “If not, will you allow me to copy your true form, rather than your more human one?”

“Go ahead, take a rest,” says Modesty. “Accept her hospitality for a couple of days. I’m tired of flying after you day after day anyway.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” I remind the pixie.

“And where would you be if I hadn’t?” She vanishes with a pop, and another flash of golden glitter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TO OZ: DAY EIGHT

The elven mansion is very nearly a palace. It lies on several acres of beautiful, wooded land.

The inhabitants introduce themselves as the Cluhurach clan: four grandparents, six younger couples, and a dozen little elflings. Their hair is shaded from golden blond to deep red, their eyes a uniform, startling sky-blue. They are tall and slender, so tall that the men can nearly look me in the eye, even in my night-time Branx form. They seem happy to receive me, and feast me generously. I reveal my simple bread-and-cheese, and the young ones were endlessly entertained by the way it renews itself over and over again. As the night draws on, and the full green moon rises in the sky, they begin to sing for my entertainment, and both adults and children prove their skill with a variety of wind and string instruments.

I am sated and sleepy, and have to beg the leave of my hosts to retire to the ornate bedroom they have provided. I toss my coat into the roaring fire in the great stone fireplace, and fall between the softest, sweetest mattress and comforter I had ever had the pleasure of sleeping in.

The sun is shining in my window, the day already well along, when I awake in the morning. Oddly, my patchwork coat still lies in the fire. I pull it out, unsinged, and slip it on. There is no transformation. My hands remain mauve, clawed, and huge.

I reach into my knapsack and take out the Comfortable Man’s eye-salve. My luxurious room transforms into a dirt-walled dugout, my bed a mat of straw, the fire and fireplace shallow hollow in a blank dirt wall.

I duck through the door-less dirt archway, and into the main part of the brugh. It is a low, dirty, underground cellar, the dirt walls festooned with rootlings and rough stones. Two dozen noseless, monkey-like creatures of various sizes lay still, sleeping on the floor. Their fur is mottled and filthy, it might have once been lighter shades of brown. The leavings of our evening meal-- a cold soup of unboiled roots-- lie on a rough table.

I curse my gullibility. I should have used the ointment earlier.

Then I think: these creatures have probably lived in glamour for so long they were unaware of their true living conditions. The magical meal of bread and cheese from the night before has no doubt been the children’s first true decent meal in some time.

I leave the brugh, stepping into the bright sunlight. The woodlands of the night before reveal themselves to be scruffy, bleak wilderness. The eldritch glamour extended far. I set the seven-hourglass, orient the green Oz-compass, and step-- far away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TO OZ: DAY NINE

I see a blue mountain in the distance. It persists as I stride towards it.

Agatha Farmer and I estimated once that at a brisk walking pace, my seven-league boots move me at a virtual speed of around a hundred thousand miles per hour. This mountain must be terribly far away, as I have been walking towards it for an hour, and it seems no closer. It must also be immensely tall.

I now see that it is not a mountain at all, but an entire planet. There is an immense crater up ahead, and the top half of a blue-and-green-and-white planet rises up out of it.

It appears to be approximately the size of Earth, as best as I can estimate. It must tower some four or five thousand miles above the flatlands. A tiny sun shines high in the sky above it, motionless.

Up close, the planet dominates the sky. I see patterns of fields and cities through the clouds. Standing near the edge of the crater, gravity behaves strangely. I feel as though I am standing on a steep incline, although my eyes tell me the land is as flat as Kansas. Winds whip around me. It is not possible for me to step across the chasm onto the strange world spinning gently ahead of me. There is a protective enchantment on my boots; the chasm must be more than seven leagues wide.

The only choice is to go around. It should be no more than a few minutes detour, but I am used to walking in straight lines, not curves.

I pass one of the great icy poles. I have moved somewhat further away from the planet, in order to ameliorate the effects of the gravity and the winds. The Oz-compass tells me that I am significantly off-course; but as it still insists I walk through the planet towards my destination, I have little choice.

I step into a small, bustling village, stopping beside a blacksmith’s shop. On second view, I see that this is a coppersmith. Many Faeries do not like to work with iron.

“Can you tell me what this great blue world is?” I ask the proprietor. Were he half his size, I would call him a dwarf.

The smith looks up. “The people there call it Atalanta. A race of reclusive, lion-headed goblin folk. They built this world and retired to it ages ago. No one comes or goes unless they can fly. Few choose to travel there anyway. The occasional curious magician.”

“And your people live so close by? Do the winds bother you?”

“Why should we move?” answers the Faery. “We were here first. We’ve dug in, and intend to stay.”

“Do you have much custom… are there other towns nearby?” I ask.

“There are a few, within a hundred thousand strides. And there are inns along the roads. Are you looking for a place to stay?”

“An inn within a day’s journey, perhaps?” A number of roads trail off from the little village, all leading away from Atalanta.

“There are no days or nights here, under that bright sun. Atalanta casts no shadow. But the nearest is that way.” The coppersmith points towards one of them, and turns back to his work.

If I pay careful attention, I can see the landscape flash by as I take a seven-league step. I catch a glimpse of an inn not far back. It proves to be within walking distance.

Some negotiation with the walnut-faced innkeepers, and we agree that a leftover Thrallcoin will serve for seven hours rest, a meal before bed, and breakfast after. I believe I am being taken advantage of. I am pretty sure the Thrallcoin is nearly pure gold.

The others at the little inn-- it does not even have a name-- seem mostly shopmen. I have little fear for my safety here, despite the reputation of small, lonely inns in fairytales. Also, I have not encountered night since the elven brugh, so I am still in my Branx form. I appear more intimidating than I am, but it is some protection.

Thick black curtains cover the windows in my room, but it is not night, and there is no fire. The bed is a little too small for me, but I manage, and it is more comfortable than sleeping in the open.

The walnut-faced innkeepers have prepared a huge breakfast for their lodgers, and seem to expect me to eat half of it. Perhaps I have not been overcharged after all.

In a short time, I have finished my half-circuit of the planet Atalanta, and am re-oriented with the Oz-compass. I had begun to fear that I had already passed by destination, but this strange world of Atalanta is a landmark I would not have forgotten.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TO OZ: DAY TEN

I am standing in a grassy field amid a flock of miniature sheep.

I take a step.

I have stepped into darkness. The ground is soft and squishy. I smell a strong vapor of sulphur. Swamp gas.

I take a step.

It is still night. I am in a wood next to a clearing swarming with gnat-sized fairies.

I take a step.

It is still night. Night-goblins with glowing red eyes prowl around igloo-shaped stone huts.

I take a quick step.

It is still night. I see the lights of a small town not far away.

To my left, the sun has set behind a range of tall mountains.

To my right, a great silver moon sheds its moonlight through the immense trees of a distant forest.

I am near what looks like an abandoned hobo encampment. A perfect place to spend the night. I gather some brush and loose branches, and kindle a fire. I toss in my cloak, and settle down for a meal of magical bread and cheese, then fall asleep under the feathery Extensible Stragulum as the fire dies.

I am awakened by the sound of bells. I peek out from beneath my coverlet. The silver moon is high in the sky, almost directly over my head. A silvery river has appeared where there was no river before. A half-dozen women are dancing in the moonlight by the river. Their skin is white as the moonlight, white as milk, white as bone. Their diaphanous robes and veils do little to hide their bright silhouettes. The bells I thought I heard are their singing.

A dark bird flies down from the dark sky, and lands before the women. It morphs into a crooked black shadow of a man, and speaks to the tallest.

“I come again to beg your hand, Moon-Daughter.” The creaking voice carries over the flatlands between us. The creature is warped and twisted like the stump of a black tree; it may have more than two arms or two legs.

“O, Darkling Lord Manikin,” says the Moon-Daughter, “Your red eyes frighten me.”

I see two flashing red eyes in the Manikin’s face. “Princess, you need not fear the Fire of Love that burns in my eyes. I have brought you treasures that burn as red.” Red rubies drop from his hands, sparkling in the silver moonlight. They form little piles around the Manikin’s feet. “Let me cross the river to bring them to you.”

I see now that the silvery river separates the group of women from the crooked little man.

“O, no Darkling Lord Manikin,” says the Moon-Daughter, “See, someone watches us.” She points in my direction.

I am ready to run, but the Manikin’s nose is up against mine in a minute. His face is distorted and grotesque, and up close I can see his skin is as red as blood. His eyes shine like red candle flames. His breath could roast a goat.

“Who are you?” asks the Manikin gruffly. “What are you? What did you see?”

“I don’t know what I see,” I tell him honestly.

“Tell me,” he commands.

“I see a silvery river. A tall white princess, attended by five white ladies-in-waiting on the other side. A night-crow that transformed into a blood-red dwarf. I see it, but don’t know what it means.”

“You see nothing,” the Manikin croaks, laughing. “Go back to sleep. Do not be here at the next full moon.”

The twisted little dwarf can be certain of that.

o o o

The moon has barely touched the tip of the mountain range when I awaken again.

“Something has built a fire here,” says a voice like a can-opener.

There are dark shapes shambling about. I count three near me; there may be more. They seem between twelve and fifteen feet tall, but it is hard to tell, lying on the ground.

“Hush,” says another of the shapes. “There is a little bird nesting here.” He gestures towards my Stragulum.

“What kind of bird builds a fire?”

“A fire-bird?”

Grunting.

“Let’s finish our meals, and leave the poor bird alone.”

The shapes retire to the opposite end of the clearing. There is a horrible sound of crushing and snapping and grinding. I lie still until all is silent, then fall into a fitful sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TO OZ: DAY ELEVEN
INVISIBLE HOUSES

Dawn is dawning. My seven-hour glass has run out; I have slept more than seven hours on the cold ground. There are three massive boulders on the other side of the encampment that were not there before. I can almost make out the outline of arms and legs and faces. Gravel surrounds the sleeping stone-trolls like cracker-crumbs.

There is a broken trolltooth next to my iron-soled seven-league boots. There is a long scratch on one boot. I hope they will still work properly.

I don my coat, and transform back into my four-armed human form for the first time since the City of Anaxagora. I breakfast on bread and cheese. By morning light, I see there is fruit on some of the trees nearby, but faery-fruit can be an adventure unto itself. I kick apart the fire to make sure it is well and truly extinguished, orient myself with the green Oz-compass, and set out walking again.

By mid-day I come to a sandy beach. I am unable to step across the water. This is no mere lake; it is more than seven leagues to land. The enchantment on the seven-league boots prevents me from stepping into the middle of the sea and drowning. I sit on a rock and have a mid-day meal of more bread and cheese.

Eight hundred steps allow me to circumnavigate the waters, judging by the sun. The Oz-compass points steadily away from land, over the sea as I circle. Obviously, I need to find a way to cross. On my second circuit, I spy a cobblestone path leading to a little cottage near the sea-shore, with a picket fence, a pleasant lawn and a neat garden. I approach it slowly, and notice that there is no door.

“Hello?” I call from the doorstep.

“Come in, stranger, and refresh yourself,” a friendly woman’s voice calls out.

There is a table just within the doorway set with plates and bowls and silverware. A large glass bowl sits in the center of the table, filled with peaches. An unusual fruity fragrance fills the room. I assume it is the peaches.

“Join us,” says the woman’s voice. “Only do not eat the dama-fruit unless you wish to be rendered invisible as we are.”

“I thought the invisible people lived underground,” I remark.

Platters full of food are now drifting towards the table at different heights. I perceive there must be at least five people in this home.

“So you have heard of the Valley of Voe?” asks a male voice. “We emigrated from there to the surface world. But we brought a pair of dama-bushes with us.

Chairs are now being moved up to the table. I count six-- then there is a high-chair for a baby. One of the chairs pulls back.

“Sit here, please,” says the woman’s voice. After I sit, there is a great scrambling, and the invisible family fills the rest of the chairs. Dama-fruit flies up into the air, and vanishes into invisible mouths.

“We don’t stand on ceremony here,” says the invisible man. “Eat, please, to your hearts content.” The platters are filled with all manner of vegetable dishes and fresh fruit and bread. There is a tureen of soup on the table, but not meat of any kind.

“I am traveling to the Emerald City,” I explain. “As you are from an adjacent country, I imagine you might know the way.”

“You must cross the Nonestic Ocean,” says the invisible man. “Not far from here, to the west, is a village of Fisherman. If you arrive early enough, they will take you with them, although you will have to earn your keep. I do not know of any other way to get out onto the Ocean. Whether or not they will take you across to the Delkapan Continent-- well, you will have to ask them. Then you will have to cross the Deadly Desert which surrounds the land, where no living thing can survive. And then you will need to find the Land of Oz itself-- a difficult task, for it was enchanted into invisibility many years ago.”

“I have an eye-salve which allows me to see through glamours,” I explain.

There is gentle laughing from the invisible people.

“This enchantment of invisibility is not a glamour,” the invisible man says. “It is as robust as our own. Try your enchanted eye-salve, and see if you can see us.”

I take out the Comfortable Man’s gift, and discover that the invisible family is correct. There is no glamour over this strange household.

“I suppose I should go see the Fisherman’s Village in the morning,” I say. “Is there an inn or boarding house within a day’s travel?” I explain my particular needs.

“On the other side of the Fisherman’s Village,” the invisible man explains, “Is a Wizard’s House for travelers. It will open to a traveler for a single night’s stay.” He gives me directions, and a good description of the house.

As a favor to the invisible family, I watch the children in the afternoon while the parents attend to some errand. One of their favorite activities is to play in a shallow tub of water. They are as invisible in the water as in air, and when they splash one another, the water becomes invisible when it touches them. There is an occasional gauzy outline as the water fades in and out of visibility, however; I discern that these children are pre-teens, perhaps ten or eleven years old. Their voices are quite high-pitched, I had thought them much younger.

The children go into their rooms to change, and dump a pile of soggy clothing onto the back porch. It seems that their clothing becomes invisible when they put it on, and re-appears when they take it off. I wring the damp clothes, and hang them on a clothesline in back of the house.

As the sun begins to set, I take a step along the road. The Fisherman’s Village flashes by, and I catch a glimpse of the Wizard’s House. I walk back in the normal way for a few minutes.

The Wizard’s House is a wooden cottage, painted bright bright yellow, with a red roof and blue trim, carved with mystic sigils. There is a bright green door in a red frame, which opens easily. I call, but there is no one home. An open door leads to a small bedroom. When I enter, the fireplace blazes to life. Exiting the bedroom again, I discover that a dining table and chair have appeared in the main room, with a single place setting. A meal of savory pancakes, sausages and herbs is steaming on the table. It is like being back in the house of invisible people, but there really is no one here.

As the sun sets, I morph into my Branx form, remove my coat, and toss it into the fire. While I was eating, a comfortable chair and small bookcase have appeared beside the fireplace. I choose a small booklet which explains the history and lore of Wizard’s Houses. They are a particular enchantment created specifically for travelers where there are no inns. They exist scattered throughout Faeryland. This is evidently a very fine one; some are only tents or shacks, while some project only the illusion of comfort, and those who leave are as hungry and tired in the morning as when they came.

There are also fourteen books about the Land of Oz, written in English from the early 2Oth century. I skim them to refresh my memory; there are some annotations; it seems that there are a number of inaccuracies in the books, and some characters and stories are made up out of whole cloth.

Unfortunately, I am too tired to study my ultimate destination carefully. I retire to the comfortable bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TO OZ: DAY TWELVE
THE FISHERMAN’S VILLAGE

I awaken before sunrise, and force myself out of bed. My coat of transformation is patiently waiting for me. The Wizard’s House provides me with a breakfast of scrambled eggs, porridge, and fruit juice. As I still leave the house, the sun is still below the horizon. I close the bright green door, and it locks itself behind me.

I attempt to triangulate on the Fisherman’s Village with my seven-league boots. In theory, I should be able to go any distance less than seven leagues, in any direction, in just two steps. I settle on landing an hour’s walk from the village, and go the rest of the way the slow way. When I arrive, dawn is just beginning to break above the horizon.

The inhabitants of the Fisherman’s Village have heads of fish: tuna, octopi, lobsters and other shell-fish. It is the magical contamination of their profession. I speak to the dock-master, a heavy-set man with a whale’s head. He recommends me to a Captain Haddockseyes. I offer my services. I ask no remuneration, except to be delivered to the continent. Captain Haddockseyes refuses passage; I explain I only need to get within seven leagues of Delkapan, and he agrees-- but I must work a full day.

It is exhausting work, although in my human form I still retain my Branx constitution. I am shifted from station to station, being taught to trim the sails, trim the lights, learning to haul in nets and catches, playing cabin boy to Captain Haddockseyes, learning to avoid the boom. We see mermaids; the crew lingers for a while as Captain Haddockseyes negotiates with them. We carefully pull up our nets, and move to different waters. Our catches improve in the waters the mermaids sent us to. One of the crew points out a distant sea serpent to me. It looks something like a giant, hammer-headed plesiosaur. Captain Haddockseyes has let the crew know they will be sailing towards the Delkapan continent at the end of the day. With the sun low in the sky, we sail north. My iron boots will not let me take a step-- until they will. I am now standing on a broad beach of fine white sand.

I overnight on the beach, eating magical bread and cheese, and a fish Captain Haddockeyes’ crew has cooked for me. It is a fish like no other I have ever seen: it is entirely boneless, solid white meat. The crispy skin has the taste of caramel.

The beach seems entirely devoid of wood, or even dried seaweed, so I am forced to forego a fire. I will make the final leg to Oz in my Branx form.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
TO OZ: DAY THIRTEEN
THE CONTINENT

The Nonestic Ocean lies to the South, and a golden sun rises in the East. The Oz-compass points North.

I take a step.

I am in a deep, shadowy crevasse. The sky is a dark blue overhead. A small wood of weird trees surround me: I realize that they are growing with their roots in the air. To my left is a strange village, with upside-down houses resting on their chimneys, and men and women walking on their hands. The wear shoes on their hands and gloves on their ape-like feet.

I take a step.

I am out of the crevasse. My ears pop from the sudden change in height. I am standing on the shore of an immense river running North and South as far as I can see in both directions. It is an ugly brown color, and froths with a sickeningly sweet smell. The trees in the forest nearby are as strange as the land I have just come from: fruit-trees bearing all manner of pastries, cakes, and candies, and immense trees bearing clothing and furniture on their branches. I see no residents of this strange land about.

I take a step.

I have followed the frothing brown river North, but the forest has vanished. What first appears to be a rust-colored mountain is in fact a rusted iron giant, lying face-down in the barren wilderness.

I take a step.

I am overlooking a massive valley, dizzying in extent. The frothing brown river runs down into and through the valley. The food-trees and furniture-trees have reappeared, as well as trees bearing plates of fine porcelain, silverware and jewelry: gold and silver necklaces and bracelets set with gemstones of every color. Above the towns laid out in the valley, men and women ride through the air on creatures resembling storks. Either the storks are very large, or the people are fairy-sized.

I take a step.

I am on the other side of the valley. The forest is thick here, sides of beef and legs of pork and ham hang from the trees. An immense fairy palace of pure white marble rises out of the forest in the distance. It is entwined with running creepers of blue roses.

I take a step.

I am in a meadow of ordinary grass, stretching to the horizon. It is still morning; the sun has scarcely moved.

I try to take a step, but the shoes will not allow it. I must be less than seven leagues from the Deadly Desert. I will need to make progress the slow way.

The needle of the Oz-compass is darting across an arc of some thirty degrees or more, for the Land of Oz lies spread in the near distance ahead of me. I continue in what I hope is the straightest direction possible. The sun has moved to the Western sky by the time I reach the Desert.

It is clearly my destination. The lime-green meadow grass yellows, wilts, and blackens as it approaches the Desert. The sands give off a foul, yellowish-brown fumes, which choke like sulfuric acid when I approach too closely. From the reaction of my seven-league boots, the Deadly Desert is more than seven leagues wide. I take a few paces to the East and West, hoping the sands will become narrower, but I have no such luck. Technically, as I am outside the South of Oz, this is the Great Sandy Waste, as I was reminded by the collection in the Wizard’s House.

I have been mulling how to follow the injunction, LET STREBOR GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS for weeks. I not only need to get into Oz, but to the center of the country, to the Emerald City itself. Passing over the Deadly Desert is the one thing that has stumped me. Agatha Farmer did not provide me with a flying carpet or tornado seeds. But I did get an idea from the other night’s perusal of the Oz books.

I turn my back on the Deadly Desert, look up to the sky, and cry in my best incantor’s voice:
“Johnny Dooit, come to me.
I need you bad as bad can be.”

Nothing happens for a long time.

The sun sets.

I prepare to spend the night in the field, again. Although the meadow is very green, it looks like it would burn well, so I forego a fire again tonight. I will spend some time tomorrow investigating further. Perhaps if I circumnavigate the Land of Oz, I will find a narrower region of Desert. There are also said to be a few underground tunnels that lead under the desert. I seem to remember one off a cove or pool in one of the stories.

I may have to make my way back to the Wizard’s House somehow, and do some more intense studying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
TO OZ: DAY FOURTEEN
JOHNNY DOOIT DOES IT AGAIN

I am awakened before sunrise by a cheery little voice.

"Well, here I am. But you shouldn't say you need me bad, because I'm always, always, good."

I open my eyes to see a little man, perhaps a meter-and-a-half tall, sitting on a big copper chest, puffing smoke from a long pipe. His hair and whiskers are long and white; and braided into ropes that wind around his waist. He wears a leather apron that reaches from his chin to his feet, and it is worn and soiled and weathered, as if it has been used for a very long time. His nose is broad and stuck up, his eyes are a twinkling and merry blue. The skin on his hands and arms looks as hard and tough and used to work as the leather in his apron. He has two small, understated horns growing just below his receding hairline on either side.

It is Johnny Dooit.



“I expect you are probably wondering why I called,” I say.

“You want something built. Why else does anyone call Johnny Dooit? Let’s not waste time with pleasantries. What do you need from me?”

“You once created a sand-boat, to cross the Deadly Desert into Oz,” I explain. “I wonder if you could do so again.”

“I remember that,” says Johnny. “I did that for love-- or rather, under the enchantment of the Love Magnet. Horrible thing. I would have to charge you the going rate, though.”

“I don’t have much,” I explain. “I’ve spent what little gold I had. I have a few gifts from my mentor, and a few from the Comfortable Man.” I search through my backpack. “I have a tinder box, a magical onion of cheese and a half-a-loaf-- although the enchantment of ever-renewing is bound to run out soon-- an ordinary knife, an enchanted compass that always points towards the Land of Oz, my feathered Extensible Stragulum, ointment of true sight, a seven-hour-glass, an formerly ever-filled coin-purse, and an ordinary satchel. My seven-league-boots are valuable, I’m told, but Agatha Farmer wants them back again when I have completed my journey.”

Johnny Dooit nods as I list my possessions. “You have been well-provisioned for a long journey,” he notes. “Although you have neglected to mention the fairy-servant who accompanies you-- not that I would want another one. But I am very interested in your Verwandlungsumhang. It is beautifully made.” I must look puzzled. “Your patchwork cloak of transformation,” he explains, gesturing his long fingers at me.

“But… this was made especially for me,” I reply. “How would it be of any use to you? For one thing, you only have two arms.”

Johnny Dooit laughs his cheery, high-pitched laugh. “Of course, I would need to adjust the spells that were laid on it. But if you will be willing to give it up, I will accept it as payment.” He raises a finger. “But you would be limited to your natural form ever after,” he cautions.

I somewhat reluctantly agree to the bargain. Johnny Dooit explains that a sand-boat would be impractical for a single person to operate, but he will build me something just as effective. There is also an intimation that he does not want to build the same thing twice. Or perhaps he cannot. He sings as he works.

The only way to do a thing
Is do it when you can,
And do it cheerfully, and sing
And work and think and plan.
The only real unhappy one Is he who dares to shirk;
The only really happy one Is he who cares to work.

The contraption resembles a headless ostrich, five stories tall. It is made entirely of wood, which was all somehow produced entirely from Johnny Dooit’s copper chest. Intricately carved wooden gears are visible within the tall, hollow frame.

“You could not have managed a sandboat on your own,” Johnny Dooit explains. “So I have built you a walking machine. You should be able to cross the Deadly Desert in a day, but get an early start tomorrow morning. I put a thick coat of varnish on it, but that should be dry in about an hour. You should spend some time getting used to the controls before you make your trip. Good luck, Johnny Four-Arms.”

Johnny Dooit took a long drag on his pipe, slammed the lid of his copper chest, and vanished in the blink of an eye.

The upper platform is accessible with a series of ladders. There is a wooden chair bolted to the center of the platform, complete with a wooden parasol. A pair of large, wooden foot-pedals, as might be found on a church organ, protrude from the floor in front. Over and between the pedals is also a large ship’s wheel for steering. Two tall handles on either side of the chair control the balance of the mechanism. Seated, with my feet on the pedals, two hands on the wheel, and two hands on the handles, I am very comfortable. The thing has been made for me. It does not take long before I am operating the walking machine smoothly. I almost tip over only once, on a sharp turn. Once I get moving, there is also a gyroscopic mechanism somewhere down beneath me which helps keep everything in balance.

It is about as tiring as walking up a steep hill.

I sleep again in the grassy meadow, just outside the Land of Oz.

CHAPTER THIRTY
TO OZ: DAY FIFTEEN
OZ AT LAST

I lunch high in the air in the middle of the Great Sandy Waste, on my onion of cheese and half-a-loaf of bread, and a couple of fruits I picked from the sparse trees in the southern meadow. I see nothing but sand in front of me and sand in back of me. I have been trying to keep the sun on my right shoulder; I know there is a danger of walking in circles when a person is left to their own sense of direction. The sun, however, is now nearly directly overhead, and I wait until it peeks over the left side of the parasol before proceeding.

Red-rock mountains rise in the distance before I see anything more than sand beneath me. I step out of the desert, past black and wilting grass, into a luxurious, heavily wooded meadowland which extends as far as the eye can see. The closest trees are heavy with cherries and red plums. I must be in the Quadling Country in the Land of Oz. I check the Oz-compass, and it is spinning lazily.

I climb down from my perch into the rhubarb-colored grass, and see that the clawed “feet” of the walking machine are scratched and pitted, and timber in the “legs” is cracked and splitting. Little flakes of yellowing varnish flutter to the ground. The whole mechanism suddenly collapses into a pile of broken lumber as I barely jump out of the way. The wood quickly disintegrates into sawdust, and a gentle breeze from the North blows it all out into the Deadly Desert.

I was unfamiliar with this aspect of Johnny Dooit’s magic.

I sample the local fruit without having a real supper, then head out in a northerly direction. After several minutes, I realize that I am not walking with the seven-league boots, and invoke their enchantment.

I take a step.

I am standing near a wide, well-worn road of smooth red earth, with flagstones of red adobe on either side. The road parallels a wide blue river not far off. I situate myself on the road, and take another step.

The road meanders through a village of adobe homes with rounded roofs. Low brick walls with swinging red wood gates surround small yards and gardens. I have appeared next to a little ginger-headed girl in a red pinafore standing next to me. She screams, and runs away into a nearby house. The door opens again, and a tall, slender red-headed woman comes out. She is followed by a shorter, plumper, red-headed, red-nosed man.

“Hello, stranger,” says the woman in a soft, mellow voice. “Where do you come from so suddenly?”

“Seven-league boots,” I explain, wiggling a toe. “I am on my way to the Emerald City, but I am not sure in what direction it lies.”

“It is several day’s journey,” says the woman. She pauses, reconsidering. “Of course, you could reach it in a few steps, if those are really seven-league boots. But it is already dusk, and it would be best to visit the Emerald City in the morning. Even better would be to meet with Glinda first. Perhaps you could stay the night with us?”

Several other men and women are now standing in their doorways. The woman addresses a stout little man peeping out of a window.

“Quacko, perhaps this Gillikin could spend the night in your spare room?”

“I would be happy to show him hospitality,” says Quacko, coming out of his door and bowing slightly. “I can even share a meal or two with him, if he likes duck soup, and bread and butter.” There is a humorous quacking quality to Quacko’s voice.

“They call me Quacko,” Quacko explains over dinner, “Because I have a tree in my back yard which bears delicious roast duck, rich and fatty.”

There are good-sized nuggets of this roast duck in the noodle soup we are sharing. It is really is delicious.

“Before full ripeness, the fruit of the Duck Trees are duck eggs,” Quacko continues. “I’ll make you some for breakfast in the morning.”

As I prepare for bed in Quacko’s spare room, I see the low fire in the hearth, and miss my patchwork cloak. It has been such a habit caring for it every night.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
TO OZ: DAY SIXTEEN
ESCORTS

I wake in the morning and sigh, missing my magic coat again. Then I see that I am missing my seven-league boots as well. They have been replaced by thick red leather moccasins. I go out to confront Quacko.

Standing at attention outside Quacko’s front door are two guards. Both women, both redheads, they stand tall enough that I can look them straight in the eye, even in my Branx form. They wear tall bearskin hats that make them look even taller. Their uniforms are cherry-and-burgundy, trimmed in white. Their skirts reach mid-calf, but they wear slacks beneath the skirts as well, and tall red leather boots. Each has a long sword in a scabbard strapped to their belts. They also carry spears with well-polished metal tips. Rising above their bearskin hats, each holds a spear at least nine feet long. They look like they know how to use them.

There is also a small cart, harnessed to a red-and-white dappled goat. In the cart are my seven-league boots. I admit to myself they have been well cared for; they have been neatly polished, so that even the iron soles and heels shine.

“Greetings, Gillikin,” says one of the guards. “We are here to escort you safely to Glinda’s Palace, where the Good Sorceress will meet with you.”

“Is she good?” I ask.

“All Quadlings know her to be Good,” says the soldier. “For she is fair to everyone. Surely the reputation of our Sorceress has reached even the Gillikin countries?”

“I know of Glinda,” I reply. “But to tell you the truth, I am not a Gillikin. I am from a world beyond Oz, beyond all Faeryland. Tharn is its name, to be specific. I am… well, lately I am called Johnny Four-Arms.”

“You are from the Great Outside World, from whence Glinda’s Wizard, and the Princess Jewell came so long ago?”

“I suppose I am,” I admit.

“And you are not Faery, not even a Troll?”

“I am not.”

“And why do you have these powerful magical implements?” she asked, indicating the seven-league boots.

“I was recently employed as a Witch’s Famulus, and borrowed these boots to make a pilgrimage to the Emerald City. I must return them to her when I have completed my journey.”

“There are only three Witches in Oz, and one Wizard,” said the soldier. “And they are the servants of Glinda. They alone are permitted by law to perform magic in our country. But we will escort you safely to Glinda, and if you have legitimate business in the Emerald City, she will assist you in completing your journey there.”

Quacko has fulfilled his promise of making me duck-eggs for breakfast. There is a pile of half-a-dozen hard-boiled, as well as fruit juice, waffles, butter, and molasses. After eating my fill, I take up my satchel and go out to meet Glinda’s guards again.

“You should really have something to eat,” I advise. “Quacko sets a nice table.”

“We require neither food nor sleep, for Glinda’s wonderful Wizard once invented two marvelous tablets, one of which is the same as a good dinner, and the other of which is as good as a full night’s sleep, with pleasant dreams. While on orders, we always carry a good supply with us. Now, if you are ready, Johnny Four-Arms, I suggest we begin our journey, for it is nearly a day’s walk from here to the Palace.”

“If we are going to spend the day together, perhaps you could tell me your names?”

“I am Lieutenant Corette, and this is my commanding officer, Captain Apricotta.”

It is Corette who has been speaking to me, and answering my questions all morning. Captain Apricotta has been silent, only nodding her head in approval or agreement.

The truth, however, is that as they are very alike in appearance, and as there are no visible insignias of rank, I confuse the two more often than not.

One might think that spending a day with two tall, beautiful women would be a pleasant experience. However, the two are very serious, and not amenable to conversation. They also walk very briskly, and although I have been on the road steadily for over two weeks, it is a tiring journey, despite my Branx Warrior constitution.

We stop for lunch, and I try one of the Meal Tablets. It dissolves in the mouth quickly, making a viscous fluid. It has a sort of mixed taste of fish sauce and chocolate syrup, sweet and salty and bitter and sour all at once. It is wholly unpleasant, but I swallow it. After eating, I have no appetite to eat anything else.

By mid-afternoon we reach the Palace. I have seen stones of rough, unpolished ruby before, and the walls appear to be made of the stuff. Although mostly red, there are veins of blue and green and white corundum as well.

We are met by a small, elderly couple within the Palace gates. Captain Apricotta and Lieutenant Corette give smart salutes, and march off with the goat-cart.

The old man is small and as bald as one of Quacko’s duck-eggs. His ears are too large for his head. His cheeks are hollow, and his piercing green eyes deeply recessed, and he is so slender as to appear almost malnourished. He wears a long green tailcoat with red piping, and loose-fitting red-and-green plaid trousers. His appearance is at once comical and unnerving.

The woman is slightly taller, perhaps a couple of inches over five feet. She is built square and solid, as one who had worked hard her whole life. She was probably lovely in her youth. Her hair is uniformly grey, and her eyes were grey as well. She is dressed in a white blouse with a grey skirt, and wears a crimson sash over her left shoulder.

“You come from a world far away in space and time,” says the old man.

“I do,” I admit.

“Well, I am Oz, the Great and Terrible,” says the Wizard.

“And you must be Dorothy,” I addressed the old woman.

“Dorothy died,” she replied. “In the midst of the great Kansas prairies. My Uncle Frank replaced my name with hers in the stories I told him of my childhood visits to the Land of Oz. At the age of ninety-nine, Ozma brought me here to live permanently. My given name is Matilda Jewell Gage, but they call me Princess Jewell here. In other parts of Faeryland, though, I am known as Ythorod the Witch-Killer.”

“And are you really Oscar Diggs of Omaha, Nebraska?” I ask the Wizard.

“I was born in the Nebraska territories, but Omaha had not even been incorporated when I was born. My full name is Oscar Ambroise Diggs, and in my youth I toured the country as a ventriloquist, with a dummy named Pinhead. I also performed as a magician, balloonist, and snake-oil salesman, although I now hold the position of Glinda’s Wizard. It pleases the Sorceress to keep us alive as her servants, and at these ages. Although she could easily restore our youth, as she does to her own self, she chooses not to. Outside of the Land of Oz, I am known as the Wizard Ambroise, and no one has really called me Oz, the Great and Terrible for many generations.”

“We hope this has dissuaded you of the idea that you know everything about our country just by reading books,” says Princess Jewell. "We are to introduce you to Glinda tomorrow, and we encourage you to speak little, and listen most carefully. Glinda is a powerful Sorceress, and thinks of herself as Good and Benevolent, but she has the temperament of a Fairy, and can be unpredictable… er, from the viewpoint of a human, at least.”

“Hey, I resent the implication,” cries Modesty, appearing in a shower of golden sparkles over the Wizard’s head. “O wow, this place is just saturated with magic, isn’t it?”

The Wizard brushed the glitter off his bald pate and frowned. “I would advise you to keep your fairy-servant well hidden,” he enjoined. “Yes, there is much magic here, but Glinda likes to keep it under control.” He lowered his voice. “Her personal control. She has some… strong ideas about what magic is and is not appropriate. She considers certain types of magic to be morally… well, immoral. Especially the kinds she cannot control.”

“I’m afraid I have little control over Modesty myself,” I admit. “You followed me all the way here?”

“Every step,” says the fairy. “But I can take a hint. There’s a troop of pixies over in Winkieland I could hide out with. I can watch you from there.” Modesty vanished in another shower of golden sparks.

“I don’t really know how to control her,” I explain. “I summoned her once, and she bit me. Now she follows me everywhere I go, turning up when I least expect it. I suppose I’m not a very good magician. She gifted me an ‘ever-filled purse’, but the enchantment wore off after a couple of weeks. She did save my life, once.”

Princess Jewell frowned. “You may be a better magician than you think,” she said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TO OZ: DAY SEVENTEEN
GLINDA THE GOOD

After an excellent supper, a comfortable bed in a luxuriously appointed room, and a good breakfast, I am standing before Glinda the Good, Ruler of the Quadling Country, and High Sorceress of all the Land of Oz, flanked by the Wizard and Princess Jewell.

Glinda is a typical Quadling, beautiful, tall and red-headed, with blue eyes that seem to beam kindness. She wears a simple white dress embroidered with blood-red hearts, and wears a modest tiara of red gold. She appears to be about thirty years old, but I know her true age is measured in millenia.

“Wizard Ambroise,” says Glinda. “Do you find me… unpredictable?”

“Just so, my lady,” says the Wizard. “For you have knowledge beyond any other in Oz. Your Magic Book keeps a record of all that occurs within the borders of the Deserts, and this is only one small source of your knowledge. For this reason, no mortal or fairy can anticipate your decisions or the reasons for them, but all appeal to you for wisdom.”

“And what of you, Strebor of Tharn?” asks Glinda.

“I only know what I have heard and read,” I say. “And much of that, I understand, is inaccurate.”

There is an uncomfortable silence.

“And why have you sought me out, Strebor of Tharn?” she asked.

I want to say I didn’t seek her out, her guards brought me here. But I refrain.

“I have promised the owner of my seven-league boots that I will return them to her, but I do not know where they are.”

“I can return them to her immediately, if you will tell me who she is,” Glinda suggests.

“I am sure you can,” I say, “But I find them useful for a few more days-- in completing the final leg of my quest.”

“And what is this quest, Strebor of Tharn?”

I dig into my satchel. “I am attempting to fulfill a prophecy concerning my destiny,” I explain.

I pull out Adrastos’ Oracle:
SEEK OUT A CRAFTSMAN OF GOOD REPUTE
ASK YOUR EMPLOYER FOR A RECOMMENDATION
LET STREBOR GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS
ASK THE LIBRARIAN

“I see,” says Glinda. “I can have Apricotta and Corette escort you to the Emerald City, but you would need to speak with His Majesty, King Ozuru Pastoria, who rules there, and all the Land of Oz. I believe I can arrange that as well, but I am loath to promise you anything until I have investigated further.”

“Ozuru Pastoria is the grandson of Ozma, who brought me to this land more than a thousand years ago,” Princess Jewell explains quietly.

“High on the hill-top the old King sits; he is now so old and grey he's nigh lost his wits,” the Wizard murmurs.

It is clear that Glinda is finished with us, and her guards escort me back into my room. I am surprised to see Modesty is waiting for me there.

“Glinda has a magic book, in which she can read all that occurs in Oz,” says Modesty. “I’m puttin’ up some static, so she won’t read about me. You be quiet, and let me talk.”

I lie down on the bed, ignoring the pixie, and pretend to doze.

“Glinda plans to keep the seven-league boots as payment for sending you to the King,” Modesty explains. “In spite of the fact that you could have gotten there yourself, if she hadn’t taken them away from you. To her way of thinking, it's fair. She’s doing you a magical favor, and taking something as payment in return. I’d just swipe ‘em after you got done talking to the King, but I can’t get near ‘em. They’re iron, and us pixies have a little problem with iron.”

I get off the bed, and go look out the window at the city around the palace, bright in the afternoon sun.

“I wonder what I should say to the King,” I wonder out loud. “I have no idea why I’m going to the Emerald City, except that the prophecy said so. That seems odd to say, having just spent a half-a-month on the road to get here.” I flop back down on the bed.

Modesty laughs, a high, tinkling sound. “Don’t think it matters what you say. The King’s just going to throw you out of Oz anyway. He doesn’t like intruders from the outside. He tolerates the Wizard and Princess Jewell because he’s afraid of Glinda, but once you introduce yourself, he’s going to want to throw you back out into Faeryland Proper immediately. And he can do it, too. He’s got a Magic Belt Princess Jewell once stole that’s pretty powerful. King Ozuru and Glinda aren’t the most powerful in the Land of Oz, though. That’s the Fairy Queen Lurline. She might listen to me, us both being fairies, but you can never be sure talking to Royalty what they’ll do.”

I get up again, and stroll to the window. “I wonder when the Palace serves lunch,” I say.

“Oh, that’s my cue to go,” says Modesty. And when I turn around, I see that she is gone. I check the carpet, and see that she did not even leave behind any pixie dust.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
TO OZ: DAY EIGHTEEN
THE CITY OF EMERALDS

“It’s a good three day journey to the Emerald City”, says Lieutenant Corette. “Over high mountains, and through dark forests. We’d better get started. Have some breakfast.”

She hands me another of the Dinner Tablets, and I choke it down. We step past the portcullis and across the drawbridge.

“But Glinda has given us something that will get us to the Emerald City in an hour and a half,” Lieutenant Corette continues. She unrolls a carpet, about six feet wide and twelve feet long. One half is green, the other red. “Walk towards the green end, and we’ll be in the Emerald City in no time.”

We walk single-file, Lieutenant Corette first, then myself, then Captain Apricotta. As before, the Quadling guards march in silence. In my Branx form, I can’t even whistle. The journey goes quickly, however, and we soon arrive at the great green walls surrounding the city.

The Guardian of the Gate bows to us-- or rather, to Glinda’s guards, and announces, “His Majesty, King Ozuru Pastoria, Rightful Ruler of the Emerald City and the Four Lands of Oz, awaits your arrival, and grants you the audience requested by his servant, the Sorceress Glinda the Good.”

We step off the carpet, which rolls itself up and begins to roll back to the South without us. We are joined by a second escort of a half-dozen soldiers in green-and-gold uniforms, none as tall as Corette or Apricotta. We are hurried through the streets to the great green palace at the center of the city.

In the green-carpeted anteroom, the Ozite guards leave us. Corette and Apricotta demur, insisting that I enter the King’s throne room alone.

The throne room is all emerald and malachite. Life-sized statues of men and beasts line the walls, some of stone and some of metal. A number of braziers on high lamp-poles illuminate the room with a green fire. On the throne sits King Ozuru. There is no one else there.

The throne is on a stage so high I have to crane my neck. The king is so old and wizened that he makes the old Wizard Ambroise look positively healthy by comparison. Unlike the Wizard, he has hair-- long, stringy gray-white hair, and a long, scraggly, unkempt beard that reaches below his waist. He wears a wide, golden, jewel-studded belt which runs from his chest to his crotch.

The green flames fade to yellow, then white. The King peers at me.

“You look like you would be at home with the Gillikins up North,” says the King. He speaks very quietly, but this room has excellent acoustics.

“So I have been told, your Majesty.” I try to bow politely. “And yet my origins are the same as the Wizard Ambroise and Princess Jewell.”

“We need no more visitors from the Great Outside World,” declares King Ozuru. “Let this be a lesson to any others who would violate our sanctuary.” He raises his fist, makes an odd gesture, and commands, “To the dungeons with you.”

I am in a dank, damp, green dungeon. There is a cot, a small table, a chamber-pot, and a barred window which is, on my side, just above eye-level, and outside, just at street level.There is no door, and it appears the only way to enter this dungeon is with the King’s magic belt.

With nothing else to do, I lie down on the cot. It is surprisingly comfortable, firm, but not too hard.

I doze off.

“Hey, Boss!” chirps Modesty, waking me up. “Guess that’s another oracle fulfilled, am I right?”

“Pretty sure this is not how I want to spend the rest of my life,” I say.

“But think of the fun you had getting here!” says Modesty. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go where?” I ask. “Either Glinda or the King will send their soldiers after me, even if you could magic away those iron bars. Which you can’t.”

“They’re not iron, they’re iron-plated gold. Gold is so common in Oz they use it for everything. In Munchkinland, they built a whole road out of bricks of the stuff. Sure, the bolts are iron, but are you a Branx Warrior or not? Just rip ‘em out of the wall.”

“And then where will I go?”

“Dungeons really get you down, don’t they? While you were sleeping, I intercepted Glinda’s carpet. I couldn’t touch your iron boots, but the Quadlings had just left them in the goat cart at Glinda’s palace. So I gave the goat a dose of pixie dust. Then I put him on the carpet, and bound him with a geas to bring the cart to you. He should be here in a few minutes.”

“Modesty, you’re a wonder,” I say.

It is surprisingly easy to rip the bars out of the wall, and climb up onto the street. The goat shows up on time, and by the time I have the seven-league boots on again, the people on the street are just beginning to notice us.

“North,” says Modesty. In seven quick steps, I stop dead.

“I must be too close to the Deadly Desert,” I deduce.

“There’s a spot up in the northwest corner of the Winkie Country where the desert’s pretty narrow,” Modesty informs me. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll need to think of something else.”

I head in the direction of the setting sun, but in a few steps I am balked again.

“We’ll have to go the slow way,” I tell Modesty. She is keeping up, and keeping visible.

“You know,” says Modesty, “In theory, you could triangulate on a destination, and get anywhere you want to in like two steps.”

“I know that,” I tell her. “I’m just not that good at geometry.”

“O, but I’m a whiz,” says Modesty. She buzzes around my head, then hovers in the air. “Walk this way.”

I take a step. A moment later Modesty is there. She hovers at a different angle. “No, a little more to the left. My left. The other left. Perfect. Take a step.”

I am standing on an outcropping of yellow sandstone on the edge of the Deadly Desert. Modesty lands on my shoulder, and sits, making herself comfortable. I turn by degrees, pushing against the invisible resistance of my boots. Suddenly, there is a slip.

And I am standing in a field of lavender.

“Now all you need to do is figure out how to get back across the Nonestic Ocean,” giggles Modesty.

And she is gone again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AN IRON TRAIN

Two steps to the Northeast and I am in sight of the seashore.

I hypothesize that if there is a narrow part to the Deadly Desert, there may also be a narrow path over the Nonestic Ocean. All I need is a single line less than seven leagues long connecting to a segment of the opposite shore. I have tried several times before when going the opposite way, but I have not tried every single angle at every single point. That would take ages. But as long as I am here, I may as well take a chance.

I walk into the surf until the water is waist-deep. I try to take the magic step, but meet the same familiar resistance. I turn a fraction of a degree, then another, and another and… I am standing in the surf, knee-deep in ocean water, facing a narrow beach. Just beyond is a field of beautiful flowers in a riot of color.

As I climb up the beach, I see faces in the nearest flowers. They follow me, like a sunflower following the sun. And they really are faces-- this is clearly some floral faery race. It is best to be cautious when dealing with unknown faery-folk. I approach as near as I dare.

“Can you tell me,” I ask, in my mildest Branx voice, “Where I am?” There is no response. “What is the name of this place?” I ask. “What are your people called?”

The nearest flowers waver on their stems, look at one another, then look back at me. There is a wave in the flowery field, like a stone being cast into a pond, that travels back as far as I can see.

I cannot take a seven-league step over the flowers. It is best not to walk through them the ordinary way, not in iron-soled boots. I walk away on a sandy road to the left. It is clear from the geography that I am on some small island. I look for a path through the flower fields, and eventually find one. It is a broad road of well-worn cobblestones, nearly flattened, with tall, rough rock walls on either side. Here, the brilliant flowers are not visible. I come to an intersection, then another, and soon realize I have wandered into a maze. However, it is not beyond my abilities to hoist myself up on the wall, where I can see the flower fields again, the path I have followed, and even down to my footprints on the beach. I hop down, and follow the advice I once learned in a math class. Placing a left hand on the wall, I will follow the maze. No matter how convoluted the maze, I will eventually find my way out the way I came in. If I find nothing interesting, I will take the right-hand route. The day is half-done. If necessary, I can camp out in the maze. Perhaps I will discover the prophesied Librarian at the center.

I do need to camp out overnight, and mark the left-hand wall with an arrow so I will not be confused in the morning.

I awake to the sound of crashing metal.

The vehicle is the size of two or three eighteen-wheelers. It resembles a chain of circus cars, each with bars like an animal cage. The entire contraption is made out of iron-- even the giant wheels. It is badly rusted. Some of the bolts and hinges are so old and deteriorated that they rattle. It is unusual to see so much iron in one place in Faeryland. Most of the fey are badly allergic, ogres and dwarves excepted.

Inside, the cages are filled with children. From what I can see, they appear human, or mostly human. All quite young. I would be surprised if there is a teenager among them.

The whole train of cage-cars is pulled by a half-dozen immense horse-like creatures, constructed of green ropey vines. More vegetable faeries ride astride. Outside and behind the caravan are a wide assortment of flower-fairies and plant-creatures, ranging in size from pixielike to at least twenty feet tall. A green man in a green frock coat and top hat leads the whole procession.

“Troll,” the green man shouts at me. “How have you come to the Enchanted Isle?”

“I was visiting the Delkapan Continent,” I explain. “And sort of wound up here by mistake.”

“Well, you need to move on,” says the green man. “Only faeries of the Floral Kingdoms are allowed on this island. No ogres or other fauna allowed.”

“Not that it makes any difference,” I explain. “But I am not an ogre. I am from the Great Outside World, and as human as these captive children appear to be. I am called Johnny Four-Arms in Faeryland, although where I once came from, I was called Strebor.”

“Surprising,” said the green man. “I am Major-General Folhagem, Mayor of one-seventh of the Enchanted Isle of Floramaze. You are under some sort of enchantment?”

“More of a magical accident,” I explain. “But I am concerned about these children who you seem to have imprisoned. Where are you taking them?”

Folhagem sighed, emitting a cloud of green vapor. “That is just the problem,” he said. “And you have only added to it. Excuse me, while I speak with my entourage.” Folhagem returns to the group following the iron train, and then goes to speak with the vegetable equestrians. He then returns to me.

“We have not imprisoned these children,” Folhagem explains. “We are only their care-takers. These are changeling from all throughout Faeryland, and they have been sent here to be returned home. There is a great cave at the center of Floramaze which once served as a portal back to the Mortal Realms. Changelings would be dropped on our shores, and we would escort them to the caves. There was a group of dwarf-miners who lived there, who would unlock the doors of the iron cages, and take the children into the depths beneath. There the changelings would be led to a portal home. But though we call for them, the dwarves no longer come, and we must now care for these changelings. There is plenty of ripe fruit for them to eat, which we do not begrudge them, and they are so few in number that there is plenty of fresh water to share. But we dare not touch the iron bars, nor can we open the iron locks, so it is a great inconvenience for both us and them.”

“How long has this been going on?” I inquire.

“Years,” Folhagem admitted. “We share responsibility with the other six sectors, exchanging stewardship every full moon. This is the sixth or seventh time I have had custody, so… perhaps three or four years?”

“I could open the iron locks, if you have the key,” I suggest. “And release the children.”

“Only the dwarves had the keys,” says Folhagem.

“Well, then,” I suggest, “I imagine I could break the locks myself, with a little effort.”

Folhagem thinks on this for a while.

“Would you be willing,” asks Folhagem, “To take the children into the caves, to see if there is a way home for them? Or, failing that, take them off the island?”

“I will explore the caves myself,” I agree. “If I find a portal, I will take them home, and return to my homeworld as well. Otherwise, do you have a ship I could use?”

“The second sector has an old sailing vessel that would fit you all,” says Folhagem. “But let us first head towards the portal cave.”

It is a day's journey through the maze, and at the end, I am completely lost.

We camp outside the cave, which has an entrance so high that even the tallest of the green faery-folk could enter without bumping their head. They stay well away from it, though. I wonder if there is iron in the mine.

As the changeling children have had nothing but ripe fruit for the past three to five years, I take my onion of cheese and half-a-loaf, and let them pass it around. I count up the children, and there are just thirty-two.

As the sun sets, I see why the faery are reluctant to enter the cave. As the light wanes, all fall into a comatose sleep. They would undoubtedly do the same in the dark of the cave. I will need a light myself if I am to explore very far, and make a note to myself to ask Folhagem about it in the morning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE LIBRARIAN

Before I enter the cave, I remove my seven-league boots, and bid them farewell, instructing them to return to Agatha Farmer. They tremble and vanish, taking the first step of their solo journey. Without me as a passenger, I assume they will easily cross the Nonestic ocean, walking on the bottom of the sea.

Folhagem assures me that there will be torches to light my way within the walls within the cave. One more reason the vegetable faeries are loath to enter. They fear fire as much as darkness. I anoint my eyes with the Ointment of True Sight, just to be sure I don’t miss anything. And enter the cave.

The cave entrance faces the sunrise, so there is light for quite a way in. As the floor slopes down, the light dims, but I see numerous unlit torches in brass brackets on the wall. I easily light them with my tinder box. A little way further, and I see scrawled on a wall in foot-high letters (in what appears to be dried blood) “Now Leaving Faeryland”. Not far beyond that, the walls change from rough rock to polished stone, and then again to bright white marble. There are no forks to choose from, no twisty little passages, all alike. There is only one way to go. Down.

The end of the path is a small round cavern. There is a swirling, multi-colored portal hovering in the air, which lights the curved walls.

There is a little wooden desk beside the portal. Seated in a swiveling wooden chair is a large, black, squarish semi-humanoid cat with cherry-red paws and a shock of matching red fur crowning its head, and matching, glowing red eyes. Standing beside the desk is a golden, cat-headed robot.

“Strebor, we meet at last,” says the black cat. “Welcome to the Library of Destinies. I am the Librarian. My name is Purr Degaton. And this is my assistant, Mewkanique.” The robotic librarian’s assistant bows.

“You must be joking,” I object. “You are the Librarian I am supposed to consult about my destiny?”

“None better,” says Purr Degaton. “This portal is the doorway into the Library of Destinies. Sadly, my Destiny was destroyed when my Universe died in an omniversal catastrophe. Fortunately, Mewkanique and I were between Universes at the time, and managed to survive. Unfortunately, due to the same catastrophe, the world you come from no longer exists as well, but another Destiny awaits you beyond this portal. Go out, bring the changeling children with you, and we will find homes and Destinies for all of you.”

I brought two torches with me, and the second one is used up before I am back into the light. I grab a couple extra on the way out. The morning is well spent by the time I exit the cave. I let Folhagem know that I have found the portal into the Mortal Realm. Now the only obstacle is freeing the changeling children from their iron cages.

I am able to snap the rusted iron locks with only a modicum of Branx effort. I take the opportunity to speak with each of the children about our plan to return them to their homes as I work through the cages. Some are reluctant, having been in Faeryland, unaging, for decades. But all ultimately agree they would rather be back in the Mortal Realm than to serve again as a servant to a Faery or Elf. All of them agree that their past masters were less than ideal. Some of them were forgotten by their masters after a few years, left to wander Faeryland alone. Others were set neverending tasks, forgetting who they were and where they came from. Others were teased and tormented for the amusement of the creatures they lived with. Eventually each of their masters tired of them, and sent them to the Floramaze Isle, to be returned to the Mortal Realm.

It is late afternoon by the time everyone is ready to go. I would prefer to let the children rest one more night, but Folhagem insists we leave immediately. When we get to the torches, I distribute a few among the older children. I also think to set up a “buddy system” so no one gets lost on the way down.

“What happened to the dwarves?” I ask Purr Degaton when we arrive at the librarian’s desk.

“Who knows?” replies the red-haired cat. “When the omniverse collapsed and re-formed, Mewkanique and I found ourselves adrift and homeless. We were offered the Librarian position without much backstory. It seemed best to accept the gift horse without examining its mouth too closely.”

“And you can assure me that the children’s home lies on the other side of this portal?” I ask.

“I can assure you,” says Purr Degaton, “They will be safe in the journey, and will quickly find their way home again. You cannot stay in Faeryland at any rate. I exhort you to move forward as quickly as possible, as we have more patrons arriving from other realms. Shortly. And this cavern can get crowded quickly.”

“Other realms?” I ask.

“This is a nexus,” Purr Degaton responds, somewhat impatiently. “Faeryland is not our only client.” He gestures towards the kaleidoscopic portal.

I lead my little group through.

One of the girls remarks, “I like him. He’s a good kitty.”

I wish I was sure of that.

It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. My first impression is of a sky full of stars. Then I see the gently sloping ramp in front of us.

“Look.up.” Mewkanique has come with us. There are “oohs” and “aahs” from the children.

There is an immense double-spiral towering over our heads. Here and there along the ascending, twisting ramps are lighted doorways. As my mind begins to grasp what I am seeing, the scene calls to mind an illustration of the double-helix of the DNA molecule. As I look off into the distance, there are infinitely many other helices in every direction, ascending into the black sky. I see that we are not actually standing on solid ground, but on one of the strange dark spirals themselves.

“The.changeling.children’s.Universes.were.destroyed.in.the.great.catastrophe,” says Mewkanique. “But.they.will.find.that.new.homes.will.call.out.to.them.Take.them.up.You.will.find.a.new.home.as.well.Strebor…”

We begin the journey upward, leaving Mewkanique behind.

“This way, this way,” cries a little girl named Ellen. We pull up aside to one of the lighted doorways. There is an ominous figure standing beside the doorless doorway. It is a bearded old man, wearing a tattered dark robe with a deep cowl. He holds an immense book in his hands, which is chained to his waist.

“Welcome Ellen,” says the apparition. “Welcome home.”

Through the doorway, we can see a medium-sized white house with windows trimmed in dark brown. A modest lawn extends out to the doorway; a tall maple tree sits in the yard. Ellen runs toward the house.

“Welcome home, Ellen,” the apparition intones again.

A moment later an elvish child runs out of the doorway, and scampers down the spiral, heading from the kaleidoscopic portal still shining far below.

A changeling. Changeling children, re-exchanged for their fairy counterparts.

A little girl named Mabel finds a portal leading to a cozy English cottage. The book-holder beside this doorway is different, his beard less gray, his robe more brown.

“Welcome home, Mabel.”

Another elf-child scampers down the hill.

“Welcome home, Katherine.” “Welcome home, Peter.” “Welcome home, Hannah.” “Welcome home, Thomas.” “Welcome home, David.” “Welcome home, Plato.” “Welcome home, Dori.” “Welcome home, Antonia.” “Welcome home, Mandrake.” “Welcome home, Paco.”

The guardians of the doorways are younger, and older, some robes well-cared for, others stained and torn. Their robes are shades of black and grey and brown and burgundy and purple. Some are women. A few have animal-faces. The pages of the books are white or yellowing, glowing or dark. The chains are old and new, rusted and polished, iron and gold.

“Welcome home, Ervin.” “Welcome home, Wendell.” “Welcome home, Tallulah.” “Welcome home, Fagel.” “Welcome home, Nashville.” “Welcome home, Martin.” “Welcome home, Gerald.” “Welcome home, Michael.” “Welcome home, Magya.” “Welcome home, Lotta.” “Welcome home, Sybil.”

My little group is dwindling. The elven children who replace them are broad-faced, pointed-eared, wall-eyed; fur-faced, fat or thin, some with tails. They all disappear quickly down, down, back to Faeryland.

“Welcome home, Bernard.” “Welcome home, Buster.” “Welcome home, Cher.” “Welcome home, Jacob.” “Welcome home, Simon.” “Welcome home, Bruce.” “Welcome home, Bartholomew.” “Welcome home, Matke.” “Welcome home, Barney.”

I am alone. I now also feel a pull upwards, like a silent siren song. I continue to climb. I am ultimately drawn to a doorway which opens on a verdant greensward. The guardian of this gate is an old woman, with silvery robes. Her face beneath her hood is as dark as her hair is white.

“Welcome, Strebor,” she says, gesturing towards the doorway. “Welcome home.”

I step through the door onto the greensward. I immediately recognize it as one of The Sensei’s training grounds on Tharn.

I am home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE CIRCLE CLOSES

I do not have to wait long until The Sensei appears.

“I do not have room for you,” he says. “I am training three apprentices already.”

“I have nowhere else to go,” I explain. I rummage through my backpack, and find the Personal Oracle given to me by Adrastos. As I unfold it, it bursts into an icy-blue flame, and vanishes in acrid smoke.

“I suppose I can appeal to the Provosts,” says The Sensei. “But you have not shown great promise as a magician.” He makes a pass, and a complex sigil appears in my palm. “Here is a temporary meal chit,” he says. “I’ll have Kluhesh take you to dinner in one of the dining halls.”

Kluhesh is The Sensei’s newest apprentice. She is an immense gold-complexioned Khund, easily eight feet tall, and built like a wall. Her tastes at the dining hall run similar to my natural Branx inclination: a great deal of meat, and a great deal of drink. We return to the cafeteria line for seconds, thirds, and fourths. As we sit digesting the meal, The Sensei shows up.

“I have arranged an examination for you tomorrow with a panel of three provosts,” says The Sensei. “I pled penury for you, as you left nothing behind when you left the Artificers. But you ought to contact Weber’s World, and apply for the stipend again. I find it unlikely that you will find a place again at the University.”

I find one of the University libraries, and fill out the online forms to renew my UP stipend. I reactivate my Interplanetary Bank account, and discover that I have apparently been absent from this Universe for a little over six years. I sort through my rucksack and find:

1 A Tinder Box, still in working order
2 A rotted Onion-of-Cheese
3 A moldy Half-a-Loaf
4 An ordinary Knife
5 The green Oz-Compass, now useful only as a paper-weight
6 The feathery Stragulum, now about the size of a lap-blanket, and no longer stretchable
7 One empty Coin-Purse
8 A small empty finger-pot which once held the Ointment of True Sight
10 The Sevenhourglass, now empty of sand
11 A pair of red leather slippers

I put on the slippers, as I have been going barefoot since entering the cave. I browse the stacks at the library for a couple of hours, until The Sensei finds me again. He leads me back to my old dorm room. It clearly has a new occupant, apparently female. She is not here, but there is a midnight-blue gown laid out on my old bed.

“I have reassigned this room to my apprentice Eurydice,” The Sensei explains. “She is under a demonic curse. Every night when she falls asleep, she is transported to one of the Netherhells. After eight to twelve hours, she returns unharmed-- physically at least.”

“She is your apprentice?” I ask. “I would think that she would prefer to be studying Demonology or Necromancy.”

“It is not our intention to master the demons who torture her,” The Sensei explains. “But to break the curse.”

“Oh.”

“You do not want to be here when she wakes up. I would advise you leave before sunrise.”

There is a familiar tinkling, and a shower of golden fairy-dust.

“What kind of place is this?” asks my fairy. “There’s hardly enough mana to breathe!”

“What in the name of the Momochis were you thinking bringing a pixie here?” cries The Sensei.

“He didn’t bring me,” retorts Modesty. “I came by myself.” She is gasping a little, but her Vanity sassiness still slips through.

“Well, I advise you to go back where you came from,” replies The Sensei. “The laws of this Universe are anathema to your kind.”

“I couldn’t,” replies Modesty. “Even if I wanted to. Unless you can open a doorway into Faeryland. Which I don’t think you can.”

“You know those can only be opened from your side. There are some pathways on Faerth, but it is a long way from here, and I really don’t think you would survive the journey.”

“Then I guess I made a foolish choice,” says the pixie, “Following Four-Armed Johnny.” She shrugs, and coughs a little. “I guess even fairies don’t live forever.”

“Would it help,” I ask, “If I said I believe in you?”

“Silly ass,” says Modesty.

“She is a kind of a pixie called a Vanity,” I explain to The Sensei. “The witch I was serving had me summon her as a kind of practice spell. She followed me across Faeryland-- millions of miles. She seems benign-- has even helped me on several occasions-- but I can’t really control her. That has concerned me, as she seems like a very powerful magic-user. Now that she’s followed me to Tharn, I don’t know what to do. We can’t just let her die, can we?”

“I have never thought you much of a magician,” says The Sensei. “But I see that I have seriously overestimated you. There may be someone on staff who can help.” The Sensei leaves me alone with my pixie.

“Why did you do it?” I ask Modesty. “Why did you follow me out of Faeryland?”

“It was-- an impulse,” the pixie gasps weakly. “Just like that time I saved your life. Stupid-- decisions, really. Never been good at-- choices.” She seems to fall asleep. The faint golden light around her dims.

The Sensei returns shortly with another sorcerer, a lizard-faced creature with pince-nez and a long beard, dressed in what are clearly pajamas. He scoops up the sleeping fairy and drops her into a round flask, and seals it with a stopper. Modesty continues to sleep, but her little golden glow is slightly brighter.

“I’ll take her with me,” says the lizard wizard. “Safe in this container, she should be able to make the journey to Faerth. Assuming we can find someone to provide transport.”

“Get some sleep,” advises The Sensei. “Your meeting with the Provost panel at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

I lie sleepless for some time, but am awakened by the dawn rising in my southern window. I do not bother with the cleanroom-- it would take some time to get the grime of Faeryland off me anyway-- and leave the dorm room as quickly as possible.

I meet Eurydice in the cafeteria over breakfast.

“I understand we shared a bed last night,” she says. She is pretty in a human sort of way, not really beautiful, but with bright blue eyes and curly blond hair.

I stammer for a moment. “I don’t really know how to respond to that,” I finally admit.

“I understand it was your old room,” she says. “When you were apprenticed to The Sensei. You look like you are quite a warrior now.”

“Not really,” I admit. “I may look big and strong, but I have the soul of a coward.”

“Or a pacifist,” Eurydice speculates.

“Oh, to the contrary. Being a pacifist requires more courage than a warrior. You have to be willing to trust the Fates; accept that bad things happen,” says Euidice. “I am not willing to accept that,” she states flatly.

“Yes, I am appalled to hear about your curse.”

“We are making good progress. Last night they left me alone in the Wood of the Suicides while they argued about what to do with me. A lonely place, but quiet. Almost like real sleep.”

“Hell doesn’t know what to do with you?”

“The demons have learned to be wary of me. I fight back now.”

After breakfast, I see that my Stipend has been reactivated. The thing about living on the University campus is that there is so much available. It is like a well-stocked marketplace.

I go to one of the less expensive haberdasheries and have a set of traditional Branx clothing manufactured in faux fur-and-leather. Collar, armbands, wristbands, lederhosen, and boots. I head for one of the athletic fields, and use a cleanroom to make myself presentable. A few minutes before eleven, I am ushered into the examination room.

“Greetings, young Strebor,” says the old, white-haired woman. “I am Noadiah Nebb of Naltor, of the College of Auguries. This is Professor Zevan Meltzer, College of Thaumaturgie, and Lady Elymiah, of the College of White Sorcery. We have reviewed your records, and spoken with your former Master, The Sensei. I understand you are requesting readmittance to the University?”

“I suppose I am,” I answer. “I’m not sure, really. I… just have nowhere else I fit in.”

“Let me ask you about this,” says Lady Elymiah. She brings out the flask containing my sleeping pixie. “I spoke with Herr Lacerta last night. Can you tell me your side of the story?”

I explain my history with Agatha Farmer, and of summoning the pixie. The Provosts have many questions, some of which I can answer, and some I cannot. Some merely bring the details of that encounter to my mind.

“I want you to understand something,” says Lady Elymiah seriously. “There is a powerful bond between the two of you, both magical and emotional. The pixie is… dependent on you. She languishes when you are apart. She follows you voluntarily… but nearly involuntarily. Something like the love of a dog for its master, although you could never tell her what to do. Will you take upon you the responsibility of caring for this creature?”

“I… I suppose I should. And she has been very kind to me.” I reply.

“She may not be so kind in the future,” says Noadiah Nebb. “Are you sure of this? It is rather like taking responsibility for a half-wild animal.”

I consider this carefully. “Yes, I understand. I will take responsibility for her. But I thought she could not… survive… on Faerth.”

“Indeed,” says Lady Elymiah. “I will let you know that we are also afraid that if we return her to Faeryland, she will die of loneliness without you.”

“So I am to be sent back to Faeryland as well?” I inquire.

“Not at all,” says Professor Meltzer. “We are loath to send Mundanes to Faeryland without good cause. We have a rather different solution.” He pulls out a black-and-yellow bird in a gilded cage. “We will merge the essences of these two creatures: the pixie and a Tellurian fairy-wren. It will take some time for your fairy to become accustomed to its new body, but in time, it will again develop the ability to speak. As a tangible, living being, it will generate its own mana, and this will sustain its fairy nature. We give it to you to serve as a familiar, improving the quality of any spells you may learn.”

“Understand what a boon we grant you,” says Noadiah Nebb. “You have not finished your apprentice’s training, and yet we are endowing you with a Familiar. Do not abuse this privilege. We will be watching.”

Professor Meltzer lays one hand on the cage, another on the flask. The light in the flask gradually dims as the fairy-form within gradually disappears. He opens the cage door, and the little fairy-wren flies to my shoulder. And relieves herself there with a loud chirp.

Noadiah Nebb smiles. “We are also authorized at this time to offer you employment. Considering the work you did for Agatha Farmer, as well as Professor Meltzer, we would like to offer you an entry-level position on the janitor’s staff at the University. There are a number of cleaning spells that must be renewed from time-to-time, as well as some cleaning and repair that can only be done by hand. You will be trained in the administration of these spells and duties. You will, as well, be at the disposal of the one hundred and sixty-nine University Libraries, for general reshelving and upkeep. You will receive training in this as well. There is an opportunity for advancement on both tracks-- ultimately as Head Custodian, or Head Librarian. This, however, would require exemplary performance over a number of decades. The starting salary is one-and-one-half the U.P. Stipend, after taxes, plus room and board. There is a nice little fairy-tale cottage behind the Children’s Library on the College of Myth campus, currently vacant. We will allow you three days to accept or reject this offer. Your employment, of course, will be at-will, although we do ask thirteen days' notice should you choose to resign.”

The following day, I accept their offer.

This section of my Earth-K paracosm is only tangentially related to the (any) DC Universe.
Going forward, I fear it will go even further afield.
I will be spending my time at Myrddin University on Tharn (just outside the capital city of St. Bosco), following the (hopefully) final year of the apprenticeships of Jon Falstaff, Zauberlein, La Bruja Amarilla, Occultress, Sohai Hadyn, and likely some others.
These tales will probably not be of any particular interest to a group of Legion fans, so I shall most likely not continue posting, at least not on this thread.