D:L&L - Part 3 | Scarecrow: In a Fog

I take my head out from the vat Munchkinlander wine and let it soak into what's left of my brains. The brains that bastard Wizard cursed me with. When I was emperor of Emerald City I could have told you what vintage the wine was, whose farm it came from, which animals shat on the earth to fertilise the grapevine. Nowadays I'm emperor of nothing, except the straw that makes up my body, and I can't tell the good stuff from goat's piss. Such is the life of a straw man. It's at times like these that I think I was better off if Dorothy left me where she found me: stuck on a pole in a middle of a field. Life was easier then.

I'm not saying everything that happened in the last 50 years was bad. We all got what we wanted (or thought we wanted): The Lion grew some balls, Tinnie got a ticker, Dorothy made it home, and I got me some smarts. I've heard it said that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I didn't find out until much later that Glinda proved this to be true. In fact, I think it was Ms. Goodie Two-Fucking-Shoes who said it in the first place. Where she heard it from, I may never know.

I'm rambling. I think the drink is hitting my head, if you pardon the pun. You see, because I'm a scarecrow I can't eat or drink like normal people. But I found that soaking my head in wine creates its own effect. The numbness starts from the top and works its way down. But the hate and the feeling of betrayal doesn't go away.

When I get like this, I picture Glinda in all her glory, sitting in the throne that was given to me. I see her blemish-free face, her gleaming smile, the benevolence that seeps from her very being - and I want to pummel her into an unrecognisable mass of witchy-pooh. Not that I'm bitter, mind you. I just need to get my head sorted. I miss the city. I miss the people. I miss the Munchkins. Not the way there are now - Glinda has them under her control - but the way they were before the shit hit the fan. But above all, I miss my friends.

Damn, all this self-pity makes me want to stick my head back in again and leave it there. Would I drown? I have no idea. Maybe it's time to find out.

Or maybe not. You see, it’s not just the Lion who’s a coward. I’m not exactly gifted in the courage department either. Don’t get me wrong, I can fight with the best of them; but as long as whoever’s on my side has bigger and better weapons than whoever’s on the other side, I can do my part. Cheerlead, mostly. While I was on the throne, that’s all I did.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was dunking my head into a vat of wine. But you already know that. What you want to know is what happened next, isn’t that right?

Yes, I do.

“Oh, it’s you again,” I said. My head was fuzzy, but I knew I wasn’t seeing things. My nemesis had returned. Not Glinda, but someone altogether more terrifying. Fiyero.

“Hello, me,” I continued. “How are we today?”

Fiyero, the other me, said nothing for a moment. He just stared with eyes the colour of cow shit. I would have called them brown – but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to do much except drown. But seeing that Fiyero had turned up again, I reckoned I was going to have to put thoughts of suicide away for another few minutes at least. If a shrink ends up reading this, no doubt he or she would suggest inner conflicts: part of me wants to die, part of me wants to live.

Nothing could be further from the truth. All of me wants to die. The me I once was wants to torture me, wants to stretch out my miserable existence for its – my – amusement. To hell with him. To hell with me. To hell with Oz.

Fuck Glinda – and the horse she came in on.

You look like shit. You’re getting worse every time I see you. I’m ashamed to think that you were once me. It galls me, Scarecrow.

“Do you want a drink? I’ve enough for the two of us.” It’s an enlightening experience talking to yourself. I mean, everyone does it. But not everyone gets to do it for real. Fiyero had been with me since the day Glinda deposed me. She got my throne, I got Multiple Personality Disorder.

Clean yourself up. We have a job to do.

“I don’t want to do anything anymore.”

How long have you been like this?

“Long enough to know I can’t go on. Can scarecrows drown?”

You ask me that every time I see you.

“But you never give me an answer.”

And I’m not about to give you one now.

“Stop torturing me, Fiyero. Let me go.”

I will, once you’ve finished what needs to be done.

I shook my head, losing more straw than I could afford. Since when did I start talking in portentous riddles? I was beginning to lose the run of myself, both of my selves. This would not do. It was time to nip this little arrangement with myself in the bud. I was weary of it all.

Do you want your throne back?

Now this was a different tack altogether. Fiyero never asked me what I wanted.
“Say that again?”

You heard me, Scarecrow.

“I want you to say it again.”

Do you want your throne back? Do you want to be Emperor of Oz again?

“No.”

You don’t sound very convincing.

He was right about that. But I wasn’t going to let him have me where he wanted me. The Wizard had me, so did Glinda. I was through with being someone’s plaything. Even if that someone was – in a roundabout way – me.

You think too much.

“That’s what having a brain does to you.”

So they say. Fiyero turned his back to me and walked to the door of my hut. I used to have a mansion; now I have a hut. How the mighty have fallen.

You should see what I see, Scarecrow.

“Is it pretty?”

Don’t try to be funny. It doesn’t suit you anymore. For your information, what is I see is the colour purple.

“You have better eyes than me, then. All I see is the blackness of my soul.”

Fiyero laughed. Have you been reading Gillikinese poetry? I have to admit I could never take to their imagery. I couldn’t appreciate it. I had better things to do. Elphaba, as bad as she was...

“Stop!” I cried. “Never say her name.”

...didn’t stoop to their level. Her angst was more existential. Once more, Fiyero ignored me. While you and your friends were dancing through life, mindless and careless, Elphaba went in search of the ultimate, her reason for being. Of course, she found that there was no reason, no ultimate. Instead of letting that knowledge bring her despair, she let it empower her. She was no more wicked that you. He turned back to face me. I see the colour purple.

“I’m happy for you,” I said. “You can go now.”

And you will come with me.

“Why the hell should I?”

You want your throne back.

“I already said I didn’t.

But neither of us believe that. Walk with me. Walk with yourself. When all this is over, you will never see me again. You will be whole. You will be in charge of yourself once more.

“If you break into song, I’m throwing myself into that vat.”

Come to the window and tell me what you see.

I stayed where I was.

Humour me, please.

I went to his side and looked out the window. I saw fog, the likes of which I had no memory. It was purple. “What shit is this?” I said.

Let’s go and find out.

“I think I’ll stay where I am. It’s safer.”

Find the source of the fog and you’ll find a way to get your throne back.

I looked at him. “I said, 'What shit is this?'.”

If you don’t venture outside, you won’t find out. It’s as simple as that. You can be assured that Glinda will be investigating this anomaly. This fog is not of her making.

“How can you know that?”

I have it on good authority.

“That’s not good enough, Fiyero.” I was arguing with myself now. The sad thing was, I was arguing back. He turned and pointed to the sky.

If it’s proof you want, I can think of nothing better to offer you than that.

Through the fog, in the distance, I saw something coming down from the air. Whatever it was, it was spinning and travelling quickly. I thought for a moment it was on a collision course with my hut; but my brain calculated a path to the west of where we were. (We. I keep saying “we.”) It came close enough for me to see it, to recognise what it was.

A house. A spinning, flying house.

“Oh shit,” I said. “She’s back.”