Surrender Dorothy, pt. 7
only a short bit this time, but we're working up towards the denoument.
There was no time to answer the witch’s proposition, no time to think about it, even to let it sink in. Dorothy felt thick headed and dazed, indecisive. The proposition was as inconceivable as the witch’s words. It was true that she was restless, unhappy with her life and what seemed to be mapped out for her, but it had never seemed more than the inchoate longings of any teenage girl. Desires that couldn’t be put easily into words. It wasn’t something she was able to communicate to herself, let alone anyone else, let alone someone who disturbed her on so many different levels. A power you don’t even know you have. There was a promise there, more overtly stated than anything the wizard had offered. The whole of Oz; was that better than a slice of America, of days that stretched on and on and blended into each other with nothing much to tell them apart, except the sun rising and setting? What the witch was really offering, Dorothy wasn’t certain, but it seemed more, better. Dark and thrilling, a hint of something that lay buried inside Dorothy where pleasure and pain were intertwined like the roots of an ancient tree, something that might answer Dorothy’s cabin fever yearnings; the first burst of green after a snowed in winter.
But she didn’t get the chance to answer. Just as she was puzzling it out, was opening her mouth to ask for an explanation, one of the witch’s foul monkeys skittered into the room. He cocked his head and regarded Dorothy with eyes that were as far removed from human as anything she had ever seen. A shudder rippled through her and she looked away. It turned to the witch and jabbered, unintelligible grunts and whoops, simply an approximation at speech as far as Dorothy could tell, but the witch appeared to understand him. Her mobile face turned stony and she glared at Dorothy with marble eyes. A chasm had suddenly opened up between them and Dorothy felt vertiginous, the solid floor beneath her feet unsteady. Without thinking, she reached towards the witch. W-what is it? But the witch snatched back, furious. You brought them here. Dorothy tried to deny it, to make things better, but it was too late, her voice was just a stammer. Not that it mattered; the witch had stormed out of the room, the heavy wooden door slamming behind her, the giant iron key rasping in the lock. For the first time, Dorothy realised she was a prisoner.
(to be continued)