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Here's chapter two of my Glinda tale. Things get a little darker in the world of Oz.
II.
THE FUNERAL SERVICE WAS HELD IN THE LANK ELTUBRAND MEMORIAL CHAPEL, a small and discreet courtyard that existed prior to where the newer wall had been rebuilt several times over the last century. Sister Eltubrand had commissioned the wall to be rebuilt using stones from a nearby quarry. The area was intended for a new Chapel for the mauntery. Dying of a rare virulent disease during its resurrection, Sister Eltubrand did not have the means, being dead, to accomplish the task. The other maunts granted the name of Lank Eltubrand Memorial out of respect or pity for the only woman truly interested in its completion. And here she lay, her gravestone engraved, “Finally able to rest on her laurels…”
And that was that.
The sanctum of Saint Glinda’s had held many political deviants of late and the past had shown no mercy on its pious sanctity either. Elphaba was housed here, Glinda reminded herself. Her mind had shattered, and her spirit was in need of respite. The sisters, with their devotion to the Unnamed God, had donned her Sister Saint Aelphaba, and given her quarters where Glinda now resided.
Glinda rather liked to imagine herself as such a political deviant. But, unlike the Witch, she had donned the visage of the great Fairy Mother, a virtuoso of social graces, organizing elaborate potluck dinners and charity events that housed some of the Emerald City’s finest. And how could she forget The Glinda Upland Grants and Scholarship Foundation for Youths Talented in Political Sorcery? But she knew Elphaba would have disapproved. She would have seen those accomplishments as trifling and self-absorbed. And no doubt they are, She thought. Still, she took pride knowing she was following in her footsteps, here, some two decades later.
The rain hadn’t let up. It pained Glinda to have to endure the weather. Couldn’t his have been done indoors?
She continually stiffened her resolve, telling herself that Elphaba would have done the same if she hadn’t been allergic to most forms of weather. She performed a quick charm to keep her face and gown intact. She would have extended the kindness to the rest of the maunts if they didn’t frown on such a crude disregard for the Faith. With any luck, the Superior Maunt wouldn’t notice.
She stood in the back of a huddle of maunts who seemed to graze like field cattle around the casket. They wore their traditional white, with winged bonnets to keep off the rain. She stuck out like a wine stain on a tablecloth, and was once again the center of distraction. No one yet noticed the shoes.
They feared the smell of rot and voted to swiftly bury the body, since the rain wasn’t going to clear anytime soon. The choice to brave the weather was the lesser of two evils. Not much is worse than the smell of putridity, especially while trying to swallow down Sister Cook’s “pureed surprise”. The younger maunts looked displeased at having to endure the uncomfortable downpour, but the older maunts like Sister Cook and Sister Apothecaire seemed content with an opportunity to best each other with martyrdom.
The simple wooden casket belonged to the elder maunt, Sister Dendrite, who passed at the seasoned age of one hundred and three. The maunts knew something was amiss when someone spied Mother Yackle muttering outside Sister Dendrite’s door a few nights ago. That morning, when Sister Apothecaire came to administer her usual morning tonic, she found Sister Dendrite to be quite departed. No complications; just peaceful acquiescence into the Netherness. At least she had lived a full life in servitude to the Unnamed God.
The Superior Maunt motioned for the company to muster closely around the hole in the ground that was now quickly filling with water. The maunt choked some inaudible phrase that Glinda thought sounded like Old Ozish, but she couldn’t tell. The maunts followed with a weighty response in the same dialect. The Superior Maunt raised her head, and peered out, red-eyed, and began her speech.
“As many of you know, dear Sister Dendrite was the eldest of us here―”
Mother Yackle hummed sardonically down the scale.
“Save perhaps you Mother Yackle,” continued the Superior Maunt dryly, “Either we’ve lost count, or you have forgotten your years.” The Superior Maunt cleared her throat and reverted to her original subject. Mother Yackle continued humming to herself, though Glinda thought it sounded more like disjointed grunting, or the growling of a dog. The odd woman kept looking uneasily up at something in the sky, as if she could see, though she was as blind as a rock. It was as if she was tracing the motion of something up in the sky, though there was nothing there. Glinda hoped she might look up and see Elphaba fly overhead, but that was no more than wishful thinking. Yackle continued to hum. The rain served to drown most of her noise out, allowing for the assembly to hone in on the Superior Maunt.
“Sister Dendrite tutored me, many years ago, in the ways of the Unnamed God, teaching me my most important tool; that of common sense. For we have all seen, of late, the dark side of Zealotry and its effects…”
As before Glinda slipped into a daze, not really listening to the words of the Superior Maunt. She imagined the stern woman in her youth, learning how to appropriately cover up her naughty pillows and her nether lips from a gravy-skinned sister of the cloth. All to better serve some invisible man in the sky. Sounds rather kinky, thought Glinda. Perhaps these simple women could find no man to dote upon, so out of necessity, created one whom they would devout there lives to, or rather chose the Unnamed God to do the job. After all an invisible, intangible, tasteless and odorless man can’t talk back to you, be unfaithful, and would never leave you, being that he wasn’t really there to begin with. I suppose it has its perks, she thought.
Behind Mother Yackle, Glinda realized someone had noticed her. Someone was watching. A pair of eyes belonging to a face she had not recognized gazed unwaveringly in her direction. She was, admittedly, quite perceptible next to the sea of white. The eyes were a bright green, a poison green, and the hair long, wavy, with a red fountain of fire that gushed out from the top of her head and ran in many braids down beyond her backside. The young woman was dressed blandly in a smock that the maunts give to their initiates, and Glinda supposed that the young woman was a newcomer. Though, Glinda would have noticed someone like her. Her age was undistinguishable, but she was undeniably beautiful.
The green eyes darted in a volley behind the white robes of many maunts. The girl retreated from view when Glinda had caught her. She was certain she had been eying the shoes. They were not as concealed as she had hoped, being that is was dark, and that she stood out against the whitewashed occupants of the lawn. She squished her heals into the muddy earth, and puffed her skirt over them until they were once again secreted beneath her gown.
True, ruby slippers had become quite fashionable after all the hoopla of the Wizard and Dorothy and her little dog, too. They were all the rage in the Emerald City, and women sported them all over Gillikin. Though the trend had died out a few years ago. Shoes that ugly could only last for so long, and she knew it. But why shouldn’t she have a pair of her own? Regardless, she owned the bona fide originals, and who else but the Lady Glinda need know?
The sky darkened, and Glinda noticed the quick darting of shadows over the faces of the maunts. It was followed by the undeniable sound of the flapping of wings; many, many wings and the calls of numerous species of birds. The maunts gasped, squinting to look skyward as a long trail of the most impressive company of birds they had ever seen. Hundreds of birds from eagles to crows, to sparrows and swans, ducks, geese, even a few giant sized condors could be seen. So many were overhead that the sky blackened, making it appear as if the night sky had draped over like a curtain on the wind.
Mother Yackle groaned wildly.
Descending as a comet does from the atmosphere, a brightly feathered peregrine falcon swooped from the ranks of the line, down to the wooden coffin and perched itself to the hull. It propped itself up and erected its spine, and everyone realized that with its comprehensible gaze that it was most certainly a Falcon. The Falcon spoke with the tonality of a handsome youth, and haughtily shook its feathers.
“Sisters of this establishment―” but he was quickly dismissed.
“Excuse me,” shouted Sister Cook, “But you are interrupting a most distinguished ceremony. Unless you want to end up as dinner, I suggest you and your pack of Birdbrains fly off, and quickly!”
“Sister Cook, some restraint please,” demanded the Superior Maunt. Her chastisement revealed urgency in her voice, “State your business, Falcon. I am aware of a muster of Birds of a sort, and I am to assume this is none other?”
“None other, madam,” replied the Falcon politely, “What goes on here?”
“We are tending to the death of one of our own,” answered the Superior Maunt.
“I mean no disrepute,” the young Falcon said apologetically.
“You speak well, young Fledgling,” beamed the Superior Maunt. Sister Cook swooned, looking exasperated, probably for being denied another choice game for supper. She began coughing and the Superior Maunt shot a gaze of ice in her direction. She returned to the Bird. “Tell me, since we are here in seclusion and rarely come across news of current goings on, what brings you to have audience with our Cloister?”
“The Storm, madam. It is ceaseless. It covers the land in all directions with no end in sight. We move to warn others. The Witch Boy told us of your kindness and requested that if we flew through the Shallows to inform you. We have reason to believe the Storm is not natural.”
“How do you mean?”
“Sorcery madam.”
Glinda’s body tensed. The sisters took turns exchanging coarse whispers in fretful gossips. Sorcery? Hasn’t Oz had enough of trouble? Glinda had felt uneasy about the storm earlier― hadn’t she paralleled it to the storm from her memory. Sorcery― how else could that Dorothy Gale have come here? Her internal gears began turning, and she thought of a thousand wild-eyed conspiracies that could have conjured it. Sorcery… indeed.
Oh if only Elphie were here, she would know exactly what to do, or where to start. And what? Did she actually intend to do something?
“Sir Falcon,” said Lady Glinda. All heads whizzed in her direction. She perked, always relishing a chance to address spectators, “If you fear this storm is magicked somehow, what proof do you have to suggest that is indeed the case? You did say you had reason to believe?”
Sister Cook coughed harder this time, though she appeared to be astonished. As if to say, could the Lady Glinda have asked something logical? Occasionally she showed signs of intelligence.
“Well…” ruffled the Falcon, “Storms don’t usually cover such a vast expanse without assistance of some kind. It’s raining all over Oz. Many within our Conference have reported hearing strange things moving within the clouds, though no one has seen anything. But that’s just the trouble with storms, if something were moving around up there, it’d be awfully hard to notice.”
“I have never heard of a storm stretching the entire land,” the Superior Maunt said, concluding the dubiousness of the situation.
“Foul play,” added Sister Librarian, and the Falcon cocked his head like― well, like a bird― but realizing the double entendre of whom she addressed she chose to correct herself and start again, “I meant villainy of some sort. Whatever it is moving around up there, someone clearly doesn’t want it to be seen.”
The thought had already entered everyone’s mind. Panic ensued.
“Where did you hear it?” coughed Sister Cook.
“And who would summon such a thing?” flung Sister Doctor.
“…Or such a storm to hide it in?” added Sister Apothecaire.
“What do these things sound like,” inquired Glinda pointedly, “These things moving in the clouds?”
“Uh… well very large… as if, well,” the Falcon cocked its head again. It was apparent that he had not intended to enter a game of twenty questions with a funeral crowd, and was not equipped to satisfy their thirst for answers. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I don’t know how to describe it, rather. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. It moves swiftly, but has such a furious roar. The sound doesn’t come until after it is far off. The echo booms from far up above the cloud cover, but shakes the valleys and ground below.”
“That is quite disturbing,” garbled Sister Librarian.
“Indeed,” agreed the Falcon, “It makes Navigation quite difficult, especially for us aerial species. News is slow, travel slow, and whatever is up there is going unnoticed.”
“Surely others will catch on if this storm doesn’t let up,” shot Sister Doctor, “And people must have heard the noise. And of course the size of this storm is peculiarly suspicious!”
“Let us hope.”
The Falcon gave certain social cues to suggest that he was ready to return to his fleet. The maunts had taxed him. He was appalled at how quickly the maunts had forgotten about their dead. In the grave the water had filled to the brim, and the casket was now fully afloat on the surface of the grave.
“Really I must be off,” he attempted with politeness, “But if there is any news, I shall inform the others and make sure an emissary is sent.”
“We thank you. You have been most informative…” said the Superior Maunt. Her tone rose up with the inflection of a question, suggesting the Falcon to fill in the gap with a name or title, if indeed he had one. The Falcon flew off into the air, to join the clouds of Birds, but as he flew he answered the maunt with a name.
“Runter,” he said, “I’m called Runter!” But he was already sucked back into the phalanx of many wings, and was not longer perceivable by human eyes. Somehow Mother Yackle, her cataract eyes like a pair of bloodshot pearls, looked directly at the line of the Birds, though she was most likely just keen to the sound.
Sister Cook’s cough grew violent and she wheezed uncontrollably, dropping to the ground, splashing as she did. Sister Doctor rushed to her side and inspected her vitals.
“She’s having an attack,” she said, “It’s her asthma. The weather has been on for too long, and it’s taxed her lungs.”
Sister Cook gasped for air.
“Take her to the infirmary,” ordered the Superior Maunt. She delegated a few of the youths to help Sister Doctor remove the fallen maunt, who lay submerged in mud and rain. Glinda couldn’t help but stare, frozen, at the writhing maunt. Sister Cook was known for her rough exterior, but to see her so vulnerable, so threatened, sent a chill through Glinda. It terrified her, the way it terrified all. There is nothing more understood than suffering. How susceptible we are. How helpless, like babes, like ragamuffin ants on a horses trod! Even if we charm ourselves to keep off the rain, we are not immune.
Glinda felt the cold dash of rain punch her scalp. Her spell had worn off. She quickly became as cold and soaked as the rest of them. The Superior Maunt took notice of the panic, and decided to dismiss the service.
“Everyone indoors and quickly,” said the Superior maunt hotly, “Until this storm has passed, I deem it is unsafe to be outside. We will conclude our respects to Sister Dendrite at that time.”
Most of the maunts piled into the Cloister, except for the handful that the Superior Maunt had instructed to siphon out the grave and bury the deceased sister as swiftly as they were able. Glinda didn’t hurry into the crowd. Her gown was already ruined, and she preferred waiting in place than in line, packing like a rodent into a mouse hole.
Realizing now how wet she was, she moved to go inside. Then, quickly recalling that she was foolish enough to wear the priceless ruby shoes into the rain, she snatched them off her soaked heels, and tucked them cautiously under the folds of her sleeves. She looked around, suspicious of any onlookers. In the doorway to the Library, she thought she caught a flash of green eyes and red hair retreating from view, but the rain made it difficult to trust the eyes.
She peered out into the rain. The maunts had taken garden hoses and were sucking the water out onto the lawn. The casket had filled to the top with rainwater, and raised the wooden cap of the casket aside, exposing the corpse to the storm. Sister Dendrite lay topside to the sky, floating on the surface. Her white gowns stained with water, revealing her breasts. Her hair spread like weeds as she bobbed up and down. Already wrinkled with age, the exposure to the water made her look positively ancient. Her mouth sank, showing the protruding bones of her cheeks and teeth. Glinda thought she looked like an aquatic specter, a ghost from the bottom of a dank pool, emerging to steal one last envious sight of the living world, before it plunged back to the recesses of the world below.
The maunts on the lawn had given up trying to remove the water from the grave. As quickly as they had sucked it through the hose, the rain returned to fill it even faster. The water line had now reached the top of the grave, and the lawn itself had begun to flood with water. Not wanting to bring the rotting corpse inside, they resorted to drowning it. Glinda witnessed as they plugged the nose, and forced the hard-closed jaw open to allow the body to fill with water. They hoisted a heavy stone over her stomach and opened her arms. Glinda moved in closer, hating what she saw, but drawn with a horrified curiosity. The body of the watery maunt descended into the bed of the grave, peacefully ignorant to the drink that now swallowed her. Glinda thought now more than ever that she beheld a ghost. All that remained of Sister Dendrite was the faint glow of her burial gown from beneath the sodden depths. Drops from above distorted the gown into motion, making it appear as if the ghost was dancing, now that it had returned to its rightful place in the underworld. As it neared the bottom, she leaned over to get one last look. The mouth gaped open as if had something to say. Nothing came up but bubbles of air. She thought she heard it singing― like a forlorn whale-song, or the haunting cry of a banshee― but she could have been mistaken.
* * *