A Lion Among Men Part 7

The train stopped at Tenniken later that evening, but Brrr didn't alight.

An onward pitch to his life now, a few arts and skills-rolling over, playing dead, making mistakes, making conversation-but no destination.

Trusting in the amnesia of Bears, in the incapacity of Ozmists to identify their const.i.tuent citizens, Brrr hoped that his mortification at Traum would be as quickly forgotten. He was not so lucky. He hadn't yet had enough experience with humans to know that the thing they hold dearest to their hearts, the last thing they relinquish when all else is fading, is the consoling belief in the inferiority of others.

- 6 -

THE AIR in the mauntery parlor seemed to have settled, as if nothing were alive but the past. "Not too much to say about the first years," he concluded. The room had a funny buzz to it, though. Old granny in the mauntery parlor seemed to have settled, as if nothing were alive but the past. "Not too much to say about the first years," he concluded. The room had a funny buzz to it, though. Old granny vigor mortis vigor mortis was listening so cannily that the Lion began to wonder if he had shared more about his origins than the sentence or two he remembered speaking aloud. She's a tricky one, he thought. was listening so cannily that the Lion began to wonder if he had shared more about his origins than the sentence or two he remembered speaking aloud. She's a tricky one, he thought.

"Talented, rather than tricky," she cut in. "But how did you come upon the name Brrr?"

"If you can read my mind," he said, "-which frankly I find an abuse of my f.u.c.king privacy-then you know already."

"I don't read minds, and you haven't got enough of a mind to browse through anyway."

"What's being an oracle, then, if you can't read minds?"

She replied, "I can only guess at what you are thinking, and truth to tell, I'm not quite up to room temperature yet. Playing dead myself has caused me to lose a little of my usual concentration."

"I don't know who named me Brrr," he told her, "and it doesn't matter. Now you tell me of your your own origins. For the record. For when I file my findings." own origins. For the record. For when I file my findings."

"None of us knows our own origins. We only know what we're told by our parents and the mythography of our national anthems."

"Don't hold out on me. Look, I gave you what you wanted. I offend you by being honest? Get used to it. Story of my life, which you can stay the h.e.l.l out of."

"I'm the last one to be offended at human behavior," she replied calmly, "so a Lion's petty moral conundrums mean even less to me. Besides, I'm no blushing spiritual nosegay myself."

"Well, then, get on with it, will you? Why are you implicated in Madame Morrible's journal? I haven't got all day. I can't read your mind, I can't even read your expression, since your eyes are so screwed up. The Court doesn't want minor philosophies. It wants the facts."

"Why should I tell you anything?"

He mused. "A barter system. Like the Ozmists proposed, once upon a time. You want something of me, too. Don't you? You must, since you've taken pains not to die till I got here. Well, you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours." He grunted. "You look like you got a mighty arthritic hunch on your back."

"Don't flatter yourself. Whatever could you do for me?"

"You tell me."

She sat silent. He'd got her thinking. He was sure she was bargaining, too, though he didn't yet know over what. He'd promise her the world to get this job over with. She wouldn't live long enough to collect.

He slapped his notebook against his forehead as if to attract the attention of a simpleton. "I'm ready when you are ready when you are." He flipped the book open again. "It's your relationship with the Thropp family that the Court is tracking down," he said. If she called him on his dissembling-his peddling not a lie so much as a disguised truth-he'd have proof that she was the real deal, not a charlatan.

He was gratified at her response. In her chair she reared back a little, her dry, flaking nostrils flaring like those of a panicky horse.

"For what use does the Court want my deposition?" she demanded to know.

"When did you come to be involved with the Thropps of Colwen Grounds, Munchkinland?"

"Has she come back?" said Yackle. "Is she here?"

"Who?" said Brrr. He stifled a wince of triumph. It had worked. Even a seer could be startled, it seemed. "Which one do you mean?"

"Elphaba, of course," said Yackle.

And, dullard that he was, Brrr could sense it: The mention of Elphaba, of her sorry history, had hurried a flush into Yackle's old veins. Whoever she was herself, old Mother Yackle, death-defying crone, she was still human enough to be corrupted by feeling. After all these years, an ounce of regret or something else very urgent still tainted the bucketful of blood that seeped beneath her bunched, crepelike skin.

He saw this. He had her. He wasn't as stupid as he thought.

"Has Candle been found?" she said. "And Liir?"

She had mentioned Liir before. Well, some folks just knew the wrong things to say. Liir was another thorn in the Lion's own sore past, and he didn't want to think about how casually he'd sauntered away from the homeless boy without a second thought.

Brrr flipped open his notebook again. "It's your turn to talk, Yackle. And I got evidence from other sources to check your statement against, so don't try slinging some phony hash at me, fair enough?"

She chewed on the nail of her little finger. It looked as if she were dining on the fin of a lake narwhal. Beyond the room, a gust of autumn wind rattled the drying ivy clinging to the shutters. "I hear a noise of marching," she said at last.

"The Emerald City divisions are tramping their muddy boots into Munchkinland," he said. "Didn't you know that? On the grounds of retaliation. Self-defense by way of colonization, probably."

"I never attended to human politics."

"That's sound practice. Stay far away. Very far away. Listen, you want the background? So far as I can pick up, our glorious Emperor a.s.serts that he he is the de facto Eminent Thropp, the satrap of Munchkinland. Because his great-grandfather was the Eminent Thropp those three, four generations back. Sh.e.l.l, the Apostle Emperor, claims a right to the manor house of Colwen Grounds, to the demesne, and even more so, to the governorship of the province. So he's about to re-annex the Free State of Munchkinland." is the de facto Eminent Thropp, the satrap of Munchkinland. Because his great-grandfather was the Eminent Thropp those three, four generations back. Sh.e.l.l, the Apostle Emperor, claims a right to the manor house of Colwen Grounds, to the demesne, and even more so, to the governorship of the province. So he's about to re-annex the Free State of Munchkinland."

"But the Eminent Thropp had daughters, and the rights of inheritance pa.s.s down through the female line. Even I remember that much."

"Ah, but Sh.e.l.l is the last of the line, and both his sisters, Elphaba and Nessarose, died without issue."

"But did they?" cried Yackle.

"What do you know about it," he asked, "and furthermore, to the point, why do you care?"

His voice was brutal, even in his own ear. He must be anxious, more than he wants to show, she thought. But she had no room for him right now, when her own tinderbox of memories was flaring to the strike. Her eyes, which had not yielded up moisture for a decade, went gummy, and her heart went hard and soft by turns.

"Tell me when you first became aware of them all," he said. "Why not? It might help. You may be an oracle, but no oracle can know everything."

At that remark of his, her sloppy tears did fall. When they dropped on her immaculate winding sheet, small tear-shaped holes burned through, showing shadowy flesh, rucked like flaky pastry.

"I will hold you to your promise," she said, when she could speak, "or I will kill you." Standing, she gripped the back of the chair as if she were at a Testimonial Pulpit. What was left of her irises rolled up into her head, slowly. It turned his stomach so far around he felt he could taste his own s.h.i.t.

She didn't begin to speak until there was nothing left but the whites of her eyes, like bloodshot stones embedded in her skull.

WHEN DID I first become aware of them? Of the witches of Oz? I first become aware of them? Of the witches of Oz?

No Good Old Days to Speak Of

- 1 -

YOU CAN start with your own origins." He kept his voice soft, almost a purr. "Name, place, and date of birth. The usual jolly rigamarole." start with your own origins." He kept his voice soft, almost a purr. "Name, place, and date of birth. The usual jolly rigamarole."

"Well, I don't know my origins." Her voice sounded faraway. Maybe she was speaking slowly because she was manufacturing lies, or maybe it took her a while to reclaim a notion of the past. "Lost in the mists of time, I'm afraid."

"You mock me, you mock the Court."

"I mock nothing and no one. First thing I can remember, I woke from a stupor and I sat up. Like a newborn I was naked, stupid, and without control of my bowels and bladder. But I was resplendently wrinkled and I wasn't blind the way babies are. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s pointed at my toes. I wriggled my toes and I tried to wriggle my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I smelled of ginger and pearlfruit jelly and I was devilishly hungry, so I got up and began to explore. I found a mirror on a wall and noticed that I had eyes, and I saw the flaccid skin barely managing to hold these eyes in their sockets. I had moles on my earlobes, and my hair was lank and grey, and my back hurt. I could talk, so I knew how to curse. I was already well on my way to bodily corruption, you see."

"But where were you-in a room, on a bed? What district?"

"Some room, some bed. Some hostel for indigents, I suppose. I didn't linger to find out. I stole a robe and some slippers from a cubby in the washroom and I tottered out the door. I found myself in the city of Shiz in northern Oz. I appeared older than most of the sentient life that waddled or cycled or ambled by."

"Did you remember your name?"

"Those who don't have a name can't remember it, can they? Sir Brrr Brrr? If I'd had a name before, I didn't know it anymore. So I had to name myself. In a marketplace stall I found a portfolio of rotogravure prints and I examined the pages. The collection advertised itself as artistic interpretations of characters of folklore. I saw gnarled old k.u.mbricia, I saw the fairy queen, Lurline, and her sidekick, Preenella. I saw the dragon who dreams the world and the tiny pixie-mites who afflict the undeserving with plague. Then I came across a page showing an elderly dame with a walking stick and a jackal on a leash. She carried the moon in a basket on her back. It was pretty. The script said 'Yackle Snarling,' and though I didn't know the story she features in, nor any story, I liked her name. Yackle. I didn't know if 'Snarling' was her second name or her occupation, so I left it off."

"Didn't you see a doctor? Anyone propose it might have been a stroke?" He wasn't being tender, just comprehensive. "Probably your mental gears just slipped. It happens to the feeble."

"Those who don't know the concept of medicine don't think to consult physicians."

He tried a more soothing voice. It came out snide. "A little therapy, or a stiff drink, and maybe the memory of your past life would return."

"Maybe," she replied. "But I don't believe in past lives."

"Any twinges about your lost childhood? s.n.a.t.c.hes of deja vu, that sort of thing? Did you ever pick up something silly and common like, oh, bootlaces or, or...b.u.t.ter rolls...and stare at them in case they jogged your mind about your past?"

"I didn't imagine the past, yet, so I didn't miss it. It was as if I was freshly minted as a senior. Some are born blind, some cranky, some superior. Some"-and she waggled a finger at him-"are born green. I was born old. Old I came into the world, and older still will I leave it, if I can ever figure out how."

He wrote in his notebook: Claims to have amnesia about her youth. Dotty? Honest? Clever? Canny strategy to avoid her legal liabilities? Claims to have amnesia about her youth. Dotty? Honest? Clever? Canny strategy to avoid her legal liabilities?

"We're here to do some discovery about your relationship with the Thropps," he said. "Can we continue?"

"I thought you said it was Madame Morrible's connections you were tracking down."

"Madame Morrible. The Thropp sisters. There is some overlap, as you b.l.o.o.d.y well know. Now just start where you can, and I'll cut you off if you ramble."

"I don't think I like you," she said, "but since this is nearly a posthumous tea party to which I've been invited, maybe it doesn't matter if I like you or not."

"You came from your coffin to talk to me," he reminded her. "You must have had something something to tell me now, right? Got some beef you're eager to turn into hash. I'm your willing audience. I'm all ears, I am." to tell me now, right? Got some beef you're eager to turn into hash. I'm your willing audience. I'm all ears, I am."

She c.o.c.ked her head sharply. She wasn't befuddled in the slightest. She just didn't like him. It showed loud and clear. Not that he cared. He was only doing his job. "Get on with it, before those army boots start tramping back this way," he said.

Was she ready to talk? She thought it over. Would she inadvertently give something away before she had finished vetting the Lion for a possible ally? So far he didn't look promising. Sitting before her, waxing his mane with spittle, twirling it into points. She could hear the motion, her ears were that keen. He was behaving like a pantomime villain training his mustachios. she ready to talk? She thought it over. Would she inadvertently give something away before she had finished vetting the Lion for a possible ally? So far he didn't look promising. Sitting before her, waxing his mane with spittle, twirling it into points. She could hear the motion, her ears were that keen. He was behaving like a pantomime villain training his mustachios.

Maybe he was only a ruse, a warm-up. Maybe she'd emerged from her clammy bier for the one who would follow this oily character.

Oracle though she was, she couldn't see in front of her own nose.

- 2 -

BRRR TAPPED his pencil. Patience wasn't his strong suit. Still, he was trying to listen to her with the severity of attention she had paid to him. his pencil. Patience wasn't his strong suit. Still, he was trying to listen to her with the severity of attention she had paid to him.

WITH A plain demeanor, I could sidle by unnoticed. I had no charm to speak of. The older woman talking to herself in some gutter isn't an uncommon sight, and pa.s.sersby rarely bother to interrupt her. plain demeanor, I could sidle by unnoticed. I had no charm to speak of. The older woman talking to herself in some gutter isn't an uncommon sight, and pa.s.sersby rarely bother to interrupt her.

I found it useful staying a bit unwashed. No one wants to look too closely at someone wrapped in strong body odors. That made it easier to sidle along in the background, to watch slit-eyed and sideways at the goings-on of a crowd. To size up a mark. To pick up what I could about this mystery of my existence.

So I stumped about Shiz. I kept my eyes down and my ears open and, for the time being, my big mouth shut.

These were the days before the Wizard arrived-yes, get your pen, I'm going to be as specific as I can, though the patterns of politics always eluded me. But now I know enough to realize that I emerged from my first sleep into the halcyon last days of the line of Ozma. Though halcyon is never so sweet as memory makes it.

Vain Pastorius was squatting upon the throne as the Ozma Regent. He ruled in the Emerald City in the stead of his infant daughter, the Ozma Tippetarius. He was a piece of work. Dim, bullnose-chinned Pastorius. What is this in human time? Fifty, fifty-five years ago? Being born without any childhood to speak of-my "olden days" have a different meaning than yours!-I never could master time. It seems a long while ago, anyway. Pastorius, that old fool. Both sybaritic and syphilitic. Coc.o.o.ned in silk, drunk on compliments warbled by his a.s.s-licking courtiers. Those were days of expensive b.a.l.l.s in the court proper, and of bawdy carnivals of patriotic sentiment outside the palace walls. To distract the urban poor from the deprivations of the Great Drought, about which no one could do a thing.

THOSE DAYS," she a.s.serted. "You wouldn't remember. You weren't whelped yet." she a.s.serted. "You wouldn't remember. You weren't whelped yet."

"Tell me. I'm all ears." He listened like a doe just noticing a leopard on a limb.

"You want the three historic segments of my earthly life? I've lived through a good deal of these modern times, if you can call it living. I'd arrived, preaged and preshrunk, a crone at birth, just at the end of the Ozma regency, before Pastorius was deposed by the Wizard and the infant Ozma was secreted away, probably murdered.

"Then came the Wizardic reign. Nearly four decades of the Great Head, as power consolidated in the Emerald City. Animals were disenfranchised of their rights; and the green shrike of a witch, Elphaba Thropp, flew the skies in agitation. Her sister, Nessarose, presided over the breakaway state of Munchkinland.

"Following the Wizard's abdication of the Throne, the brief and blameless twin interregnums-first of Lady Glinda, that bottle blonde, and then of the so-called Scarecrow, who came to power and left it again faster than a pile of autumn kindling responds to a winter torch.

"The torch of piety, that is, as wielded by Sh.e.l.l, the Apostle Emperor. Younger brother of Elphaba and Nessarose. He swore he was divinely positioned by the Unnamed G.o.d. For all I know he is his, he is his-" She nearly gagged at the thought, and rotated her hand in the air, a forward roll. "He is history."

Brrr didn't want to lead her on, to give her anything to work with, if she was indeed an oracle. Let her show facility with those unholy talents. Yet he was curious, too; he couldn't help saying, "The Emperor Sh.e.l.l is still on the Throne in the Emerald City. No opposition to his royal prerogatives allowed."