The Wizard Returns Page 6

  “Maybe I do. Maybe I’m happy this way.”

  Pete shrugged. “In that case, you’re no help to us. I’ll take away your protection—and your disguise. There are a lot of people in Oz who won’t be too happy to see you as you are—and you won’t even know why, or who to protect yourself from.”

  “You’d leave me to die?”

  “We do what’s necessary for the greater good of Oz,” Pete said dismissively. “Nothing comes without sacrifice.”

  Iris was looking back and forth between the two of them, her eyes wide. “I think you should probably do what he says,” she said to Hex. “He sounds kind of serious.” She limped forward and stuck out a paw. After a minute, Hex realized she meant for him to shake it, and obliged. “You started out kind of a rat,” she said. “But then you made up for it. You’re not so bad, human. Thanks for saving my life.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, bemused. “Good luck with your—”

  “Double-entry accounting is not a matter of luck,” she said. “It is an operation of skill.” She limped off toward the Sea of Blossoms, not looking back to see if Pete was following.

  “Good luck,” Pete said. “Iris is right, you know. You are doing a pretty good job lately, for a human.” His tone had the same begrudging respect he’d had back in the clearing, after Hex had fought the Lion to save Iris.

  “Can’t you at least warn me what the last test will be?” Hex asked.

  Pete laughed. “You should know better by now than to even ask. But when it comes time for you to make a choice, remember: you’re the Wizard. Once you ruled Oz, and now Oz is a part of you. Think about that, before you accept any gifts that are offered you.”

  With that cryptic remark, Pete turned to follow Iris. “Good-bye!” Hex called after him, but he didn’t turn around or acknowledge Hex’s farewell. “And thanks for nothing,” Hex muttered under his breath. He dug his old suit out of the pack Pete had left him, feeling a little silly, and changed behind a tree—as if there was anyone around for miles who could see him. He adjusted his top hat on his head and straightened his jacket. The clothes might make the man, but they didn’t tell him anything new about who he was. With that, he laid the pack tidily under the nearest tree, took a deep breath, and started down the stairs.

  ELEVEN

  Although the lightning had opened up the earth just moments ago, the staircase into the earth seemed ancient. The steps were as worn as if generations of feet had passed over them. Torches burned along the walls at intervals just regular enough to light the way, but their flame was cold and blue, not the cheery orange of real fire, or even the flickering multihued warmth of Pete’s magical campfire. The air was chilly, and Hex pulled his jacket close.

  The staircase ended at last at a long, dim corridor that stretched before him into more darkness. He looked around him for some kind of light, but the torches were firmly fastened to the walls. Did he have the magic to make a lantern? Even as he thought it, the air around him sparked and crackled, crystalizing into a kerosene lantern with a metal handle and a cheerful golden flame. He plucked it out of midair: it was solid and unmistakably real. What else could he conjure up? A five-course dinner? A trip home? A fur coat to stave off the chill? But no matter how he concentrated, nothing else happened. Magic, apparently, was fickle. No surprise there. He held the lantern aloft, advancing cautiously down the corridor. After a few minutes, the hallway abruptly ended in a rough wall. He stared in disbelief at the wall. He rapped it with his knuckles: solid stone. Was he supposed to cast a spell? Say a magic word? He racked his brains for any kind of clue Pete had given him, anything that would indicate what he was supposed to do next, but came up with nothing. He was at a literal dead end.

  Well, he thought, no one could say he hadn’t tried. He’d done his best to meet the test, and nothing had happened. There was no reason for him to stick around in this big, empty hall. Pete would have to understand. Maybe Pete wouldn’t even know—he could find a nice village somewhere, settle down. Perhaps he’d try being a farmer, or a grocer. What did people do for work in Oz? Maybe he didn’t even need to work, if he was such a powerful magician. He could get a nice set of robes and a wand, maybe teach himself to fly. He could visit Iris and the monkeys, impress them with his powers. Perhaps Queen Lulu would award him some kind of honorary decree. He’d be esteemed above all other humans, loved—and maybe feared, just a little—by all.

  Buoyed by this cheerful thought, he turned around to leave. As he took the first step, there was a powerful whoosh and hundreds of torches flared to life all around him, nearly blinding him. He threw one arm over his eyes and yelped in surprise.

  “At last,” said a cool, dry, sardonic voice behind him. “We have the immeasurable honor, brethren, of meeting the Wonderful Wizard of Oz.”

  Hex turned around very, very slowly, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the light’s dazzle. The rough stone hallway was gone: he was standing in an immense, palatial room lit by huge crystal chandeliers; the light was not so extraordinarily bright after all, but had just seemed so in contrast to the dim hallway. The room was luxuriously appointed; the walls were draped in black velvet, and the floor was covered with rich, tapestried carpets piled three or four deep. And it was full of people. They stared at him curiously from where they reclined against carelessly stacked overstuffed velvet pillows or slouched in ornately carved armchairs that rested next to enameled tables bearing platters of glossy, dark fruits he didn’t recognize. They were all alarmingly beautiful, but eerily identical, with bone-pale skin and hair a shade whiter. They were dressed alike in black clothes that blended into the walls so that their cruel, fox-like faces seemed to float, disembodied, in the darkness. The nearest of them shifted in his chair and there was something inhuman about the way he moved, almost as if he was double-jointed. At the center of the room there was a flat black pool, perfectly round and still, whose waters reflected nothing but instead seemed to absorb the light like a black hole.

  There was no mistaking the speaker, who lounged regally in a throne-like chair that was bigger and more elaborate than all the other furniture in the room. Carved out of some dense, shiny black stone, it was studded with blood-colored rubies that gleamed dully in the soft light of the chandeliers. Its occupant was even paler than the other people in the room, with long, sleek white hair that spilled down his shoulders and over the rich black robes he wore. One long, leather-clad leg was slung over the throne’s armrest, and he kicked idly with one booted foot against its side. A long black cigarette burned between the first and second knuckles of his fingers; he flicked ash disdainfully on the carpet before taking a long, decadent drag. His expression was one of utter, all-consuming boredom, but his black eyes glittered dangerously.

  Hex coughed, trying not to stare around him. “You seem to know who I am,” he said cautiously, “but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

  The man threw his head back and laughed. “It speaks, brethren!” he chortled, and all around him the other people in the room tittered. Hex flushed an embarrassed red. “Oh come now, Wizard, don’t be so easily flustered,” the man said, still laughing. “There was a time when all of us here were under your estimable thumb, was there not? We were simply terrified of your incredible powers.” At this, everyone around him only laughed harder. Hex scowled and balled his hands into fists, determined not to let these strange people get the best of him.

  “Ah, my dear Wizard, I apologize,” the man said, still chuckling. “Come forward, and let me greet you properly. Welcome to the Kingdom of the Fairies.”

  As he skirted the pool, Hex saw that the fairy’s black cloak was actually a pair of tightly folded wings—and, his glance darting around the room, he saw that the other occupants of the room all sported wings as well. Some of the fairies yawned and stretched as he passed, unfurling their wings—black, but lacy and delicate as a butterfly’s—and waving them gently. Others stared at him openly, craning their heads to get a better look at him. At last he
was standing before the throne, unsure of whether or not he should kneel.

  “Do not humble yourself before me, Wizard,” the fairy said. It sounded a lot like the fairy was making fun of him. “We are practically—well, I wouldn’t say equals, but my people are the rightful rulers of Oz, and you, once upon a time, usurped the throne—so we have a certain degree of experience in common, do we not?” The mockery in his voice was now unmistakable. Hex felt stupid and small. Pete had said he hadn’t been much of a wizard, but he’d just been dragged through all kinds of trials, and the last thing he needed was some stupid creep in a weird getup making him feel small.

  “You know I don’t remember anything,” he said angrily. “I’m here because Pete said you could help me if I passed your stupid test. Is that true, or should I just leave?”

  The fairy laughed, and this time his laughter seemed genuine rather than malicious. Hex almost rolled his eyes in frustration. What was the deal with these people? Were they just toying with him? Did they even mean to help him at all? He’d had no reason to trust Pete to begin with, and now he was beginning to wonder if Pete had had some ulterior motive all along.

  “I can give you back your memories, Wizard,” the fairy said. “But a choice lies in front of you; a crossroads of a kind. You must choose your path before we can give you back what you have lost.”

  “A choice?” So this is it, Hex thought. This is the final test. The monkeys had tested his Wisdom—and he had failed. The Lion had tested his Courage—and he had passed. What was left? What happened if he failed? Would they really kill him, like Pete said?

  “What do you think is left, Wizard?” the fairy king said. “Wisdom, Courage—what other virtue before you remains but Love?” He said the word “love” with a tone of such contempt that Hex nearly flinched. “Do you accept my challenge? Am I so much more frightening than the Lion, that you cannot trust the test I lay before you?”

  That was not exactly reassuring. Hex raised an eyebrow. “What happens if I fail?”

  The fairy sat up in his chair, and looked at Hex with a gaze that pinned him like an insect. “Then you are of no more use to us,” he said, “and people who are of no use to the fairies do not last long in Oz.”

  “I thought Ozma was supposed to be good!” Hex protested.

  “Ozma,” the king snorted, and a titter ran through the assembled crowd. “Ozma has her uses, but she is the least of all of us. Wizard, I grow impatient. Will you begin the test, or keep yapping all day?”

  Hex stared at the fairy king, who blew a set of lazy smoke rings at the ceiling. “Take off your clothes,” the king said flatly, “and enter the pool. And then, Wizard, we will see what stuff you are made of.”

  “Here?” Hex asked, bewildered.

  “Where else?” It all seemed like some elaborate practical joke. Hex would take off his clothes, and they’d all laugh at him, and that would be the end of it; he’d be humiliated, they’d have had their fun. Suddenly, he found that he didn’t care. He was tired of cryptic pronouncements, inexplicable quests, mysterious allusions to a past he knew nothing about. If this was his chance to find out who he was and end it, he was willing to take it. And if not? If they killed him? So be it. It couldn’t be worse than the Lion, whatever they did. At least, it didn’t seem like it could be worse than the Lion. He stripped off his jacket and trousers and undergarments; the fairy king raised one eyebrow, but said nothing, and Hex sensed that he was almost impressed. He didn’t think I could do it. He stood before the fairies with his back straight, naked as the day he was born. “I accept your test,” he said, and then he walked to the pool and jumped in.

  The water was as thick and viscous as oil, and he sank like a stone, realizing belatedly that he had not thought to ask how deep the pool was—and it seemed that the person he had once been had no idea how to swim. Without thinking, he opened his mouth to shout in terror, and the black liquid poured down his throat and entered his body, turning his limbs heavy and his thoughts slow and strange. He was drifting through darkness—he found, to his surprise, that he could breathe, although the air was heavy and close and scented with something unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Faintly sweet, like a delicate wildflower.

  “Welcome, Wizard,” said a gentle voice. It came from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding him like the water itself; it was kind, but underneath the kindness was steel.

  “Who are you?” he asked, and found that he could speak as easily as he could breathe—where was he? What kind of pool was this?

  “You are in a place between places,” the voice said. “A place between times. Between what has come before, and what is yet to pass. The pool of the fairies is a very old and very powerful thing. It is here that you must make your final choice. But first, I have something to show you.”

  “Who are you?” he asked again, and the voice laughed.

  “I am Ozma,” it said, “and Lurline before her, and all the fairy queens who have ruled this country. I am made out of the magic of Oz itself. I am Oz, Wizard. Now pay attention.” The darkness around him swirled into an image of what he knew must be Oz, but not the Oz he had traveled through: this vision was a terrible one. Dark factories scarred the once-verdant landscape, belching black smoke into the toxic air. Munchkins in chains toiled miserably in the fields, drawing magic out of the earth with terrible machines as a glittering pink witch floated over them, her mouth drawn into a horrible grin. The Lion tore through a village, leaving a pile of corpses in his wake, his mouth and hands red with blood as he laughed mercilessly. The clanking armies of the Tin Woodman marched endlessly across the barren plains where flowers had once bloomed, crops had once grown. Iris, her wrists bound, wept piteously as a soldier dragged her behind him toward the Emerald Palace.

  And then Hex saw himself and knew somehow that he was in the Other Place. He was in a huge room—a study or a library—filled with rich, expensive furniture. Bookcases stuffed with leather-bound books and curios lined one wall, and framed posters featuring his picture plastered another. His side table was crowded with flowers and cards; baskets of fan mail were piled beneath them. He was reading a book about magic, seated at an impressive oak desk covered in ornate carvings, while a butler brought him a glass of whiskey in a crystal highball glass on a little silver tray, bowing deeply.

  “You can leave Oz,” the voice said. “You can return to the Other Place. This is the life that awaits you there—the life of a conjurer, a stage magician of great renown. You will be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams; you will perform for presidents and kings. Your magic will not be real, not the magic of Oz, but it will not matter—because audiences around the world will believe it is. You will live a long, illustrious life, and die a very old and very respected man.”

  “But Oz . . . ,” he said.

  “But Oz will become what you have seen. There will be no stopping the tide of Dorothy’s dark magic. Oz will fall.”

  “And if I stay?”

  “There are no certain things,” the voice said. “There is no way to see the end of this story until we are upon it. You have magic here, real magic. You have been transformed. If Oz is to have a chance, it will be because you stay. But there are no guarantees.”

  “I could give up everything and still fail?”

  “You could.”

  “The fairies mocked you.”

  “Our line is . . . different from our kindred,” said the voice, and now it seemed impossibly sad. “The burdens of ruling Oz alone have changed us. Lurline’s descendants are true to Oz, but the other fairies have become corrupt and weak. They see only themselves. If you choose Oz, Wizard, you must be wary of them.”

  He drifted through the dark water, confused and lost. “What about Pete?”

  He could almost hear the voice smile. “What do you think of Pete?”

  “I think he’s a jerk.”

  Now the voice was definitely laughing. “Do not be so quick to judge, Wizard. Pete has his own burdens to carry, and his own secrets. All will
be revealed to you in time—if you choose the people of Oz. If you do not . . .”

  “If I don’t, the fairies will kill me.”

  “The fairies are malicious, but not evil. Whatever they told you, they will not kill you. You will be returned safely to your own time, your own home. All of this will be behind you.” The voice grew sad again. “You will forget your time here, even as Oz ceases to exist. But you must know what you were, before you can choose what you will become. I give you your memories, Wizard.”

  The terrible vision of Oz, of Iris with her bound and bleeding wrists, vanished. And suddenly, his memory—the memory of who he had been, what he had done, his days in the palace and in the Other Place, the entire long, tangled ribbon of his life, spilled back into his head like wine pouring from a jar, until he was dizzy with it. The petty tricks he had played on the people as soon as he had arrived in Oz, the deceit—forcing them to build him the Emerald City, betraying the monkeys, avoiding the witches like the plague lest he be exposed as the fraud he so essentially was. His entire time in Oz had been marked with his craven cowardice and chicanery. He had made the worst possible choice at every turn. No wonder the monkeys had cursed him; no wonder Pete had treated him with such contempt. He was filled with an overwhelming shame. How could he face the people of Oz after what he had done? How could he possibly stay here? The only answer was to go somewhere no one knew him and start over.

  It hardly seemed like a choice at all. “I choose—” He opened his mouth to ask her to send him back, send him home at last—but something stopped him at the last minute. What would happen to him if he returned to the Other Place? If he left behind what it was he had found here—the possibility that he was something far more than an ordinary man? He had felt the power of Oz’s magic running through him like a drug in his veins. To abandon that forever, once he had tasted it—what would that do to him? All the money and fame in the world could never come close to that elation, that exhilarating moment in the clearing when he had felt the full power of Oz coursing through him, when almost anything had seemed possible. What if that power was the chance to redeem himself? What if it would make him a better man than he had been? If he left now, if he went back to the Other Place, he would live with the regret of his loss for all the rest of his years. He would lose the chance of undoing the terrible things he had done, and never be able to forgive himself for it. And more than anything else, even if he went back to riches and fame, he would never use magic—real magic—again. Never know what it was like to summon the power of Oz. Never find out what he was truly capable of, now that he could tap into Oz’s magic. And he knew, deep down, that regret would undo him, like a cancer in his heart.