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| Edison's Light by Robert and Shana ParkHarrison |
I was an honest American reporter, and I had a story to write.
Proving the existence of a thought-to-be mythical land was not what I had in mind when I said I wanted to launch my journalistic career, but any alternative was better than my miserable failures as a writer.
Any alternative.
Even death.
Another bolt of lightning, this time closer. I braced myself. Thunder echoed above me and shook the ground. I thought of turning back.
It was too late.
I closed my eyes so I did not see the ball of white light as it struck me squarely, filling my body with electric needles that buzzed and clicked like insects.
I heard insects. Insects and a voice.
"Are you alright?"
I opened my eyes.
The first thing I saw was a girl, no more than twelve. Clouds passed above her, close overhead. Close. Her wild, golden hair twisted and intermingled with the white fog.
That was when I noticed we were hundreds of miles off the ground.
I admittedly let out something between a yelp and a shriek. She held me up by the fragile wires of the contraption in her slender hands.
"Are you lost?"
I stupidly asked, "Is this The Emerald City?"
I could see the pitying concern on her face, but she politely informed me that, "No, you've aimed a little too high. You looked distressed, so I caught you."
"Thanks. Thank you. Who are you?"
"I'm Polychrome."
"I'm a reporter." I handed her my card and she looked at it, a little puzzled. Both of her hands were occupied with the continuation of my fragile life. I stuck the card back into my pocket and added, for good measure, "I'm a friend of Dorothy's."
"I see. We don't get many of those."
"No?"
"Not up here."
"Maybe you could just... drop me off. Leave me somewhere close to the City." This would never do. I, an honest American reporter, could not write a story about a land from the view hundreds of miles above it.
"I'm afraid I can't. You would get hurt! But my father can bring you down safely."
"Thank the heavens for that." I heard giggles and whispers of You're welcome from the clouds around us. Unbelievable.
I was lowered to the ground by a beam of brilliant colors and rolled onto the damp grass unceremoniously and a little airsick. Polychrome waved to me as she rode the Bow back up into the sky, until she had melted into it and nothing but a faint arch of color remained.
Finally, I unstrapped myself from the uncomfortable machine that had brought me here. It was cracked and broken in several places. Useless.
I was sandwiched between a dark forest and a brilliant field of poppies stretching in a great expanse. And beyond that, the Emerald City. Diggs had warned me about the poppy field, so I needed to find a way around it.
The air was cool and fresh. I followed the rustling trees along the side of the field. Their trunks were a pure and sparkling white and cold to the touch, as though they were made of ice.
Something freezing fell on my head.
"Sorry, sorry."
I looked up and something long and shining flashed in the sunlight. It curled around the branches and slithered towards me until its face was level with mine.
It had a body like smoke, translucent and changing, but its face was made of a shining, white mask. On the mask was a crudely drawn expression: an unchanging half-smile. Its voice was deep and emotional. Vincent Price came to mind.
"I'm sorry if I've inconvenienced you, Mr..."
"I'm a reporter." I handed him my card. He looked at it for a moment before I put it back in my pocket. He had no hands. "And what exactly are you?"
"I'm a who, not a what. It's a little rude of you to ask me in that manner."
"I guess we're even, then, since it's also a little rude to drop..." I looked on the ground. At my feet in the grass lay a half-eaten ice cream cone. I looked up into the trees and noticed for the first time that ice cream cones of all flavors were hanging from the branches.
I remembered my camera. Since we do not generally have ice cream trees back home in the good old United States of America, and since I am an honest American reporter, I decided to take a photograph.
"Right. Still sorry. Very sorry."
I took a picture of my whispy companion. He showed up as a smudge on the lens. He continued as I took a few more pictures.
"I am the wind that whispers between dark shadows at night. I am a guardian of all that is evil and mystifying. I was created by a dark, unmentionable force."
"You don't seem all that bad."
"I was created by the two-year-old son of a dark, unmentionable force."
"So it goes."
"And I was banished from their household. I was not so good at my job. While I was there, they called me Mortimer."
"How cliche."
"Truly. And I want to go to the Emerald City to find honest work. Singing songs or polishing jewels or cutting peoples' hair."
I looked again at his handless body. "I am on my way there, now. Come along with me, will you?" His mask face nodded eagerly, "But first, please get me an ice cream cone."
The ice cream was rich and sweet and I finished it as we approached the Emerald City. Time seemed to move quickly, I noticed.
The City was a shining bustling metropolis of towering buildings and fast-talking folks of all types dressed in extravagant, green clothes. I felt a little out of place in my black jacket. I could see that my companion felt the same as he curled himself shyly around my arm.
Shop windows filled with incredible displays lined the streets. A small chorus passed, singing a song.
We all love our City, green!
Strong and safe and peachy keen
O what joy it is to be
In the Great Emerald City!
An anthem. So it goes.
"Stress on the word safe," my companion muttered. These characters have seen some wild things.
I must put down my notebook at this point, as we are approaching the castle and I hope to have an audience with Ozma, herself. I will continue my story following my return. Let it be known that my journey thus far has been a success and to those who doubted the existence of Oz: I have the pictures to prove it. So it goes, as an honest American reporter and a friend of Dorothy's.
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