D:L&L - Part 18 | Scarecrow: A Murder With Crows

“Turlo!” I screamed again, but I may as well have been shouting at my own reflection. My panicked cries only served to make my lynch mob more furious and that bit more determined to burn my sorry (and strawy) butt. I let out one more loud call for help and then decided it was time for me to meet my maker. The mob approached me as if covered in molasses. They seemed set on making me wait and suffer. The closer they got to me, the more intense the heat from their flaming torches became. I was not in a good place.

I got down on my knees and lowered my head. Is this what it all comes down to? I thought. From rags to riches, then back to rags again? Not for the first time I wished I had never laid eyes on that damned girl and her belligerent dog. I prayed that my end would come quick. As the mob was almost on top of me, they stopped and hummed in unison. I looked up and took in their un-dead stares. I felt their misguided (well, I thought so, anyway) hatred toward me and knew I wasn’t in any position to appeal to their better natures – they obviously didn’t have any. The fog, I thought, it has to be the fog. Otherwise they would take me to a safe place and offer me food and drink. That got me thinking about a drink: Munchkinlander wine, to be precise. Oh how I wanted just one more dunk in a vat of that sweet, sweet nectar.

“Does a condemned scarecrow get one last damned request?” I called out in terror. “If you’re going to burn me to a cinder, at least allow me one final drink.”

Their leader (for lack of a better word. I mean, can mindless minions actually have a leader?) took three steps forward and leaned down. I caught an unholy stench from his necrotic breath. Tuna, it had to be tuna. “Your kind of scum,” he mouthed in a voice I recognised, frightened though I was, “deserves nothing in the way of a merciful death. You will burn slowly, piece by singeing piece. In agony and torment.” The Munchkin snarled, showing a full set of gums. In his eyes I saw my imminent demise; but even though I was ready for my death, I owed it to myself to have one last shot at redemption. Call it cowardice if you will; I call it survival. I looked around.

But something occurred to me. These were zombies, right? If so, how could they speak? If their brains had turned to mush, how could their voices be unimpaired?

“Your monkey is not around to save you, Strawman,” the zombie said. “He’s left you in the same way that you left us with that witch – bereft of hope.”

And then I recognised its voice; it was the other me talking: Fiyero was using this dead thing as his mouthpiece. I wondered if it liked being usurped this way, or if it even knew. Or cared.

“You got educated under my governorship,” I said, feeling that I may as well carry on my other half’s playful (and potentially lethal) ruse. “Hence your use of ‘bereft.’ When the Wizard was in town, Munchkinland had the highest illiteracy rate this side of Emerald City.” Keep them talking, Strawhead, baffle them with the power of your words. Why else do you have a brain if you can’t put it to good use? Keeping yourself alive is the best use for it right now. “And don’t forget about Social Welfare Uniformity Bill No. 461(a): ‘Munchlinlanders reserve the absolute right to profit from their toils; and when they can’t, adequate maintenance shall be provided unto them forthwith.’”

The thing growled. “All that was taken away from us when you fled with your tail between your legs.” He waved his torch in my face. I smelled burning straw. If I made it out of this scrape alive I was not going to look good. Maybe I should shave, I thought. Yes, delirium had set in and taken root. Was Fiyero guiding his movements as well as his voice?

“What about my irrigation plans?”

“What about them?”

“They worked, didn’t they? Enough water to keep you growing your...whatever it is you grow around here.”

“Turnips,” a zombie from the back said, in the same voice but with a different inflection. “Lovely turnips, that’s what we grow. Them and parsnips, too.” I hated turnips. I can’t really eat but still the smell of them was enough to make my stomach turn. It was no wonder I turned to wine.

Being lectured to by these atrocities made me want to drink myself silly; the fact that they had my voice made me want to drink myself to death. Either way, I wanted a drink.

“See?” I said. “I’m not your enemy here. It’s that bitch in Emerald City.”

“Who says we want you back?” my tormentor said. “We’re better off without any of you.”

“If that’s what you want, then so shall it be,” I said. “Me and my friends will depose her and return you all to your rightful place.”

“You and what friends?” he said. “I don’t see any friends here.” He gestured to the mob behind him. “Are we friends of Scarecrow?” There was a collective shaking of un-dead heads. “There’s is no one here but enemies.”

“Where is your Tin Man?” a voice called out.

“Where is your Lion?” another one replied.

“Even that wretched dog wouldn’t piss on you now,” their leader spat in my face. “And pretty soon you will be on fire. We’ll leave your ashes to the crows. Let them shit on you.”

Crows! That’s it!

“Then allow me a moment to pray for my and your souls,” I whispered. “You can at least grant me that.” He nodded. I lowered my head once more and tried hard to recall a trick the Tin Man thought me when I had just taken over the throne of Oz. Centre your being, he’d said. Concentrate on that which brings you back from whence you came. You can do it, Fiyero. Become a man of skin and blood, not straw and crow. I hoped against hope that what happened then would happen now. I heard the device beside me beep one more time. I went so deep into myself that I could hardly feel the flames as they hovered around my face. I thought of crows, and nothing else.

It is said somewhere that if you build it, they will come. I like to think that if you picture them, they will appear. I pictured crows, fucking hundreds of them: all beaky and scratchy, all smelling of birdshit. I called them down in flocks...or murders, if you prefer. I kept my eyes shut even as the burning grew fiercer. I wanted crows and if there was to be justice for me, I was going to get them.

I heard murmurs from the mob. Then the flapping of wings. The burning stopped and it was replaced by the sound of avian carnage. Had it worked? I dared to hope...but still I kept concentrating. You see, when Tin Man asked me to call on my human spirit, I found that it no longer existed. My totem was that of a crow. I was devastated by the revelation and swore never to return to that dark moment again. Perhaps that was why Munchkinlander wine became my solace.

Have you ever heard the un-dead scream? No? Well, it’s not a pretty sound. I didn’t open my eyes for fear the crows would attack me, too. I pictured eyes gouged out by venomous beaks; I imagined tongues ripped from the mouths of shrieking Munchkin monsters; genitalia pecked to pieces by murderous crows. I had brought death on Glinda’s creations (for who else could have turned these peaceful people into firestarters?) and I relished every second of slaughter. Let them die, not me.

All I wanted was a drink. Served them right – fuckers.

It was suddenly quiet. I slowly opened my eyes and surveyed the wreckage. Not one Munchkin moved, if they were alive at all. Through the purple fog I saw each crow staring at me, peering into my very being. I smiled and tipped my head at them. My mind saw them smile and tip back. They flew away as quickly as they came. I made a mental note to use them again, if the need ever arose. I remembered the beep and looked down at the strange little machine. I read its message.

“AS DEUS EX MACHINAS GO, THAT WAS A DOOZY.”

I didn’t know what it meant, really, but I kind of got its sentiment. I stood up and nearly lost balance. When I finally got my bearings I ran my hand over my face and felt bits of me, singed by Munchkin flame, fall of. I was definitely smoother that before. I turned around when I heard something come from behind me. Had one of them survived? I worried needlessly. It was Turlo.
“Boss,” he said. “I can’t leave you alone for a few minutes without you getting into trouble.” He flew up beside me. “No time for chit-chat, though. We have to get to where we need to be.”

“Bright Lettins?”

“Absolutely,” the monkey replied. “Are you hungry?”

I shook my head. “Thirsty,” I said instead. “Just very, very thirsty.”

Turlo grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that, Boss. I know someone who might buy you a drink.” He grabbed my shoulders and we were airborne once more.