Abducted to Oz Part 6

We are going to try to run over to Berlin in the spring_.

As Graham finished Mark Twain's last letter--the one to Mr. Fields, dated 1874--he noticed that the next letter from d.i.c.kens to Mr. Fields was dated 1867--seven years prior. He wondered if the two famous writers had actually crossed paths or had just known the Fields independent of one another. Either way, it was interesting to note that they were contemporaries. He had always imagined that d.i.c.kens had lived in a much earlier era than Twain. Well, to continue:

_Westminster Hotel, New York Sunday, Twenty-ninth December, 1867

My Dear Fields:

When I come to Boston for the two readings of the 6th and 7th, I shall be alone, as the Dolby must be selling elsewhere. If you and Mrs. Fields should have no other visitor, I shall be very glad indeed on that occasion to come to you. It is very likely that you may have some one come with you. Of course you will tell me so if you have, and I will then re'mbellish the Parker House.

Since I left Boston last, I have been so miserable that I have been obliged to call in a Dr.--Dr. Fordyce Barker, a very agreeable fellow.

He was strongly inclined to stop the Readings altogether for some few days, but I pointed out to him how we stood committed, and how I must go on if it could be done. My great terror was yesterday's Matinee, but it went off splendidly. (A very heavy cold indeed, an irritated condition of the uvula, and a restlessly low state of the nervous system, were your friends maladies. If I had not avoided visiting, I think I should have been disabled for a week or so.)

I hear from London that the general question in society is, what will be blown up next year by the Fenians.

With love to Mrs. Fields, believe me,

Ever Affectionately yours, And hers, CHARLES d.i.c.kENS_

Following this letter to Mr. Fields was the note dated 1869 and the recipes for the brewing of pleasant beverages. Last was the program for the two plays at the Tavistock House Theatre. Graham was really looking forward to bringing all these things back with him.

As Graham got to the last line of the last letter, his eyes began to feel heavy. The whirlwind of activity since his abduction had caught up with him. Just as he was falling asleep, the sound of the captain's voice on the intercom jerked him awake. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching Historicalfigureland International Airport. We hope you had an enjoyable flight and hope to see you again on Oz Airlines. Oh, and to our young guest from America, you are welcome to visit your friends here any time. But I'm sure you want to continue with your mission, and you will be glad to hear that we will be making an immediate turnaround after the disembarkation of our other pa.s.sengers. I believe you were brought on board for the sole purpose of delivering some important doc.u.ments back to America, but you are certainly welcome to stay as long as you wish."

At that, the plane landed with a slight b.u.mp and soon taxied to the terminal. The doors opened and everyone began to file out--many, antic.i.p.ating that Graham would soon be returning, didn't engage him in conversation, but shook his hand warmly and wished him well. Mark Twain gave him a hug and said how much he had enjoyed his company. He said that Graham reminded him a lot of Tom Sawyer who, he said, currently lived down the street from him. Seeing Graham's puzzled expression, he quickly explained that any imaginary character an author dreams up is actually a person that the author has tuned into. And that an author rarely has an original thought in his head but is really very good at catching glimpses of activities (present, past or future) somewhere in creation.

As Mark Twain turned to the exit, Graham suddenly remembered a question that he had wanted to ask. "Oh, Mr. Twain," he called. "I wanted to ask how you came to use the name Mark Twain. I know your real name is Samuel Clemens...."

"Well," responded Twain, "no one has ever asked me that question before--Just kidding," he added quickly, seeing Graham's expression.

"Yes, I am asked it all the time. The name was first used by an old Mississippi river pilot named Isaiah Sellers, who used to write items for the _New Orleans Picayune_, in which he told of his adventures. He signed them Mark Twain, which in the parlance of pilots is a leadsman call meaning two fathoms, or twelve feet. When I was a cub pilot, I wrote a burlesque on Captain Seller's articles and published it in a rival paper under the signature of Sargeant Fathom. Unfortunately, the captain was so hurt by the burlesque that he never wrote another article. I still feel badly about it to this day, for I would never have intentionally hurt the old gentleman's feelings. Anyway, in 1863, when I was working for the _Enterprise_ in Virginia City, Nevada, I wanted a good pen name and, while I was trying to think of one, I received the news of the death of the good captain. This brought to mind the name Mark Twain, and so I adopted the name in his honor. I signed it first in a letter from Carson City to the _Enterprise_ on February second, 1863.

So now you know, my young friend," said Twain as he handed him an autographed photo of himself. "Something to keep for yourself, in remembrance of your visit here." He hugged Graham again and waved goodbye to the boy as he descended from the plane.

Several distinguished-looking gentlemen stopped to introduce themselves to Graham. One said his name was Ralph Waldo Emerson and another, Nathaniel Hawthorne. Yet another, Isaac Newton, who said Graham would probably become a scientist.

"Undoubtedly a physicist," said Albert Einstein.

"Oh, no," interjected Eugene O'Neill. "There's no question that he will be a writer." This last remark was overheard by Charles Lindbergh, who insisted that Graham would be a flyer. Then two deep resonant voices spoke in unison: "It is obvious that the boy is a born actor." The speakers were Lionel Barrymore and John Gilbert. But Senator Charles Sumner had the final word: "Whether he becomes an actor or not is immaterial: I can a.s.sure you that this young man's ultimate destiny is in the political arena."

After the distinguished group finished arguing about Graham's future vocation, they said that, since he seemed to be starting an autograph collection, they would be glad to add theirs to the list. Even John d.i.c.kens, father of Charles d.i.c.kens, signed the sheet. Then Emerson also handed him a note that he had written to--of all people--Mrs. Fields!

"Don't mention this to d.i.c.kens or Twain," he said. "They'll just be jealous."

Turning to make sure Emerson had disembarked, Nathaniel Hawthorne winked at Graham and whispered, "Here's a little note that I, too, wrote to Mrs. Fields. Not a word now to Emmy, d.i.c.kybird, or Marky-Mark." Graham laughed out loud at the nicknames being given to Emerson, d.i.c.kens, and Twain, as well as the schoolboy-like antics being displayed by these great men. Then Edward Lear, who wrote _The Owl and the p.u.s.s.ycat_, also handed him a handwritten note to Mrs. Fields. Graham could not help but think what a popular lady this Mrs. Fields must have been in her day. He wished he could have known her.

Hawthorne then handed him a signed photograph, as did Isaac Newton, Charles Darwin, Thomas Alva Edison, Albert Einstein, and H. G. Wells.

Even Stephan Crane and Rudyard Kipling produced photographs.

Mr. Shakespeare was the last to leave. He had gone back to his seat when Messrs. Twain and d.i.c.kens were vying for Graham's attention. He, too, hugged the boy as he said goodbye, then handed him a piece of paper. "I have written down the verses I recited to you earlier, my friend--just in case you are not able to remember them all. It is important that this be given, simply because so many people doubt my authorship. I suppose after it is published there will still be doubters, but so be it.

Skeptics have always existed and, I a.s.sume, always will. Some people like to doubt the reality of certain phenomena that appears quite obvious to others. I suspect it makes them feel secure: something they no longer have to deal with. Well, good luck, my little friend. I'm sure you will find your way home. Oh, incidentally, I almost forgot. I didn't want to one-upmanship d.i.c.kens and Twain in their presence, but I was an actor too, you know--long before those two. You might also like to have my autographed sketch. You will note the difference in my spelling of my name and the later versions." He stuffed a piece of paper in Graham's shirt pocket as he exited.

As the plane's doors closed behind Shakespeare, the flight attendant brought Graham a refreshing gla.s.s of lemonade. His thoughts turned to Telly, who had been so sad at being left behind. He eagerly looked forward to seeing the little guy again.

Graham slept the entire trip back. He awoke just as the plane taxied to the terminal. And who should be waiting in exactly the same place as he left him but Telly, who was so glad that Graham had returned that he ran up and hugged him for the longest time.

"I knew you'd come back," he said. "That's why I waited. I knew that the plane couldn't be going to America. In fact, I still don't believe that there was any plane or airport or anything. I think it was all some trick of the Witch to confuse us. Planes simply cannot exist in Oz.

Transportation is either by foot or via some magical contrivance such as the animated Gump or the famous Red Wagon."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you," replied Graham, waving the bundle of letters, photographs, and drawings in his hand. "But where do you think these came from if the whole thing was some kind of hallucination? And how could I read German words if the words weren't in my consciousness to begin with? And I certainly couldn't have made up Shakespeare's words."

"And I hate to disappoint YOU," answered Telly, quite tartly, "but you might wish to look behind you."

Graham turned to look behind him to catch a glimpse of the entire airport fading away. Not only that, but the papers in his hand had also faded away to absolute nothingness. "Oh, no!" cried the boy. "Now I have no proof of my experience!"

"That's because it never happened," Telly replied dryly.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:

THE WINKIE COUNTRY

Oz was as unlike America as it could be, yet also familiar. It was not very long at all before Graham began to feel almost at home among the soft yellow countryside of the vast Winkie territory in which the pair now found themselves. In fact, Graham had come to feel so comfortable that he had all but forgotten about the evil Witch. He might have remained content and carefree indefinitely, had he not heard the growl that came forth from a nearby top-hat bush. It was a most deafening growl that sounded as terrible as a buzz-saw and as alive as an unfed zoo animal. Graham shuddered. He wondered what sort of macabre being could possibly make such a horrendous noise. Then a voice rang out. It was not a human voice at all, and this made Graham shudder even more, whereas Telly seemed quite unfazed. (That was only because he was walking and napping at the same time.) Apparently he had switched to automatic pilot, then closed his eyes as he drifted into a state of oblivion.

"Do you remember how the Wicked Witches sent the terrible Forest Monster after the Wizard?" said the voice.

"Of course I do," answered a second voice, equally unhuman-sounding "And who could forget the time Allidap sent forth those fearsome gray wolves after little Dorothy? They could easily have ripped her to shreds."

Both of the voices sounded distinctly throaty and animalistic. In fact, they sounded as a wild beast might sound, could a wild beast speak English. It occurred to Graham that this was Oz. Wild animals COULD speak English!

"And do you think that Witch pulled a good scare when she sent those angry birds to attack Dorothy and her friends?" said one of the wild creatures.

Graham could take no more of this. It was obvious that they were surrounded by hidden animals sent by the Wicked Witch to eat them (at least him; he doubted they would attempt to eat Telly, since he would be highly indigestible). He quickly jabbed Telly in his rib-cage to awaken him to the imminent danger and, at the same time, he stooped over to grab a yellow rock from the ground. It was not much of a weapon, but it would have to do. He held up the rock threateningly.

"Okay, wolves or monsters or whatever you are!" he shouted. "I hear you conspiring. And I know that you are working for the Wicked Witch! We're not going to give up without a fight, so I suggest that you all go away!" He smiled with a hint of pride in his brave speech. But suddenly, there was a rustle of leaves behind him, and a huge creature sprang out from behind a bush and leaped at the pair. Graham, not wanting to be attacked from behind, swung himself around to face the creature. As he did so, he absently lowered his weapon at the sight of two rows of gleaming white fangs and claws that could easily have torn a little boy like himself apart in an instant. He realized that the rock in his hand was a puny weapon indeed for confronting such a ferocious beast. But nevertheless, he raised it again as a sort of reflex action and thrust it directly at the teeth of the creature. At that moment, out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of another set of jagged teeth and claws attacking from his right. It raised a huge paw and knocked him off balance. The rock fell to the ground, out of reach. The little boy watched in horror as one of the two animals stepped forward and looked at his face. The other one was watching Telly.

"What do you think?" asked one of them.

"Looks like a little boy and a tin can with arms and legs carrying a TV set," said the other.

"The boy's not all dressed in yellow, so he's not a Winkie."

"Nor is he all in blue, like a Munchkin."

"Or purple, red, or green. He matches none of the Oz colors. I wonder where he came from."

"Maybe he's from Ev. Or Ix."

"Can you speak, boy?"

Graham struggled to sit up, while Telly just stood and glared at the beasts. He was not happy with their description of him and was seriously considering giving them a tongue-lashing, but thought discretion was the better part of valor, at least for the moment.