D:L&L - Part 14 | Narrator: Golden Hair and Slippered Feet

“What did they say, pet? What did they say? They said they didn't find anything on that old fool’s cart. Trinkets and toys, little bomboozles for the kids, frittzies for the bored Munchkinlander housewives, and booze for the men who work the fields in the hot sun under the gaze of the scarecrows." Nasty creatures – scarecrows!

Glinda shifted in her seat and eyed the monkey in the window. It looked away. She growled softly, trying to compose herself, and went back to brushing. Mother had always said that to keep her hair looking just right she must brush it every day -- five hundred strokes, she'd said. One, two, three -- five hundred!

The brush moved fluidly, the motion practiced and thought-free. Two hundred and fifty strokes on one side and two hundred and fifty on the other. The people must see their Empress as the truly beautiful, the golden, glowing Goddess that she was. They must still see her as that angel that descended all those years ago and threw down that abomination, freed them from the yolk of undead straw-headed tyranny.

For what was that Scarecrow but something not living? It had no soul. It had no spirit. It had no connection to the Unnamed God. How could it connect to people? How could the people of Oz feel any fealty, any sense of respect or honor for a creature that was so different? With him came the Animals making their way back into society, the little Munchkinlanders spreading their miniature menagerie across the landscape of Oz. And that could only lead to...

The brush worked furiously through her hair as she counted. "One hundred seventy-eight. One hundred seventy-nine. Tell me about the tinker again; tell me about the Travel Kart -- are you sure?"

The monkey chittered. It was sure. It looked embarrassed, if monkeys could be said to look embarrassed. It chittered again and then looked away.

"Dropped him without so much as a question." Glinda sighed and closed her eyes, but still the brush moved. She could see herself there in front of the mirror, the yellow frock glittering with diamonds casually thrown around her shoulders. She hadn't expected the monkeys to report back so quickly, and she preferred to sit naked in front of the mirror to brush her hair, to watch her body move, to count the strokes and watch her beautiful tresses glitter in the ambient light. It was the failing light in the West, the setting sun over the Great Kells drifting through the windows of her tower at just the right angle, accentuating her perfect nose, her perfect breasts, casting half of her body into a shadow that seemed so appealing, so erotic.

The brush moved faster. Two hundred seventeen. Two hundred eighteen.

It had been lighting just like this when he’d come to her. The brush had fallen to the floor when he’d touched her naked shoulder, softer at first that she had expected – not a rushed, crushing, ragged onslaught. He’d been gentle, careful, knowing how delicate she was, knowing how awkward the situation would be, but just as quickly as if he’d sensed the primal nature of the encounter, felt her urgency, read her reaction – it had even surprised her – he was on her in the most delicious, delirious and disgusting way. She’d screamed and clawed and half-heartedly tried to scramble away, but he’d held her fast, her face raw from the rough stone of the floor, until she was done, until she could resist no more and was lying in a puddle of her own sweat and sex feeling freer than any creature in Oz had a right to. Then he had gone – just like that, without a word, leaving her whimpering in the early night.

Forty-six. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. She was on to the right side now, and when she opened her eyes, saw how flushed her chest was, felt that singular ache, and brushed, brushed, brushed.

She glanced at the monkey. It was still looking away, as if it sensed her shame, her need. It chittered some more.

“The fog? Good. Serves those little bastards right. We’ll have no more interference, no more talk of rebel groups.” She stared at herself, her eyes narrowed, the brush gliding, gliding. “No more Animal Rights talk. No Wicked Witches. Not again. I won’t play the fool like the Wizard,” she sneered.

The fog had been a stroke of genius, an ancient bit of magic she had uncovered in the scrolls, among other things. There in the dusty old bins of Madame Morrible’s boarded up townhome, she’d found the scrolls – endless reams of parchment bound in sealed tubes and locked away from prying eyes and the sun’s rays. There, she also found, was a scroll that hinted of something more, something that had perhaps been lost, something that needed finding – a hint, a clue, a glimmer of hope to carry her forward to her goal.

Glinda took in a sudden breath when the thought of it tripped across her mind. One hundred eighty-two. One hundred eighty three.

The Grimmerie.

“I have to find – what?” The brush stopped.

The monkey shifted uneasily. It chittered again.

The brush fell to the floor.

“Dorothy? Back in Oz?”

The one-time, self-proclaimed Good Witch of the North shivered and pulled the frock up around her neck. The name seemed to crawl across her skin. She stared at herself in the mirror again, blue pools falling into each other, visions cascading across the water. She swallowed and squinched her toes together, felt them squeezed ever so tightly, so securely in the confines of her most prized possession – her Ruby Slippers.