D:L&L - Part 9 | Scarecrow: Me, myself & Turlo

"Where do you think it landed?” I asked Fiyero.

If I know my Munchkinlander geography, I would say it hit ground somewhere in Wend Harding.

“With any luck it will have crushed Glinda this time around. I’m sick of witches.”

Only a few minutes had passed since the house flew over my hut. All kinds of memories came flooding back, some good, some not so good. It was like I was stepping back in time, reliving my quest for a brain. I’ve heard it said, be careful what you wish for...Have I mentioned that already? If I have, forgive me. My head is melted.

How long have you been hiding yourself away, Scarecrow?

“Since Glinda ousted me.”

Nearly 50 years, then?

“That would seem right.”

Okay, enough going over old ground! These are interesting and challenging times in which we find ourselves. A new flying house brings fresh problems for you and I.

Especially you.

I scratched my head. It was beginning to dry out and the thought crossed my mind to soak it again. That’s the thing about wine: once it gets hold of you, it won’t let go until the last grape has been crushed, along with your soul. I looked out my door again, forcing my eyes to focus through the fog.

“Which way is Wend Harding from here?” I asked.

When you finally got a brain, Fiyero said, sighing, you never had the need to ask any more questions. You knew all the answers. Even the flying monkeys sought your wisdom.

Fat lot of good that did me, I thought. Bastards were only scoping me out for their boss, the bitch Glinda. Sussing out what I knew about this, that and the other.

But you did help some of them, didn’t you?

“I keep forgetting you can read my thoughts.”

I am you! It’s hard not to know what you’re thinking. And you never answered my question.

“Question?”

About the monkey you helped. What was his name?

I had to think hard on this. Like I said, it was 50 years ago. And all those monkeys looked the same to me back then. If Turlo were to...

Now you have it.

“Turlo! That was his name.”

I knew it would come to you. You helped him.

I did indeed.

I was in power for just a year and so much had happened in that small space of time. Dorothy had gone home to Kansas, taking her cheery attitude, Toto and pigtails with her. I missed her for a while, but since she didn’t leave a forwarding address, her memory kind of faded once I got into the swing of being the Emperor. The Lion and Tin Man had their own issues in The Emerald City and failed to settle down. Both ended up going their separate ways. I think (but don’t quote me on this) they had a falling out. Over a woman, of all things. The last I heard of Lion, he was collecting debts and setting himself up as some sort of music mogul. Good luck to him, I thought at the time. Of Tin Man, I heard nothing. One minute he was around, oiling himself, as any man would in his circumstances, the next he was gone. Like Dorothy, his exact whereabouts were his own business. Like Dorothy, his memory went away.

My workload increased. Everyone in Oz, from Munchkinland to Vinkus, from Quadling Country all the way up to The Great Gillikin Forest, wanted a piece of The Scarecrow Emperor. The Wizard had left a mess of titanic proportions. Corruption was everywhere, that much was obvious. Money made from the mandatory wearing of emerald-coloured glasses while in the city was siphoned off to help pay the Wizard’s expenses – mainly his cohorts and concubines. Jewels, clothes and abortions, that kind of thing. I had a lot to sort out.

It was fortunate that my brain came with tax accountancy software, though. Within a month the public purses were in order and all citizens were granted a tax amnesty to last no longer than six months. I was surprised by the level of honesty, if truth be told. It appeared that most folk were looking for a clean break with the past and wanted a fresh start for themselves, their families and their businesses. That was fine by me. I was looking for the same thing for myself. Where Fiyero once stood, human and proud, the Scarecrow now stood, a man of straw and happy with his lot. I had found meaning and I was happy to help others find theirs. Call me Emperor, call me friend, but by all means call me. Which people did, in droves.

My days, when I wasn’t sorting out the economy, revolved around finding solutions to legal issues. I won’t bore you with details, but they were mostly petty: land ownership, loan arrears, Animal rights, marriage infidelity problems (there was a lot of that going on during the Wizard’s time) and child protection. Trivial stuff, like I said. I set up committees to deal with each individual case as they arose and that system seemed to work. Everyone went home happy. Those that didn’t, well, no one likes complainers, do they?

The monkeys wouldn’t go away, however. The little bastards were everywhere. Free from the witch’s power, one would have been forgiven for thinking they’d bugger off and settle somewhere, anywhere apart from Emerald City. But no, they brought up some law, long since considered extinct and nonsensical, and demanded their right to live with fellow Emeraldians. I predicted a riot, and a riot is nearly what I got. Using my newly-acquired skills of mediation, I pulled us from the brink of civil war and packed the winged fuckers off to a camp in the Pertha Hills. I’m particularly proud of that manoeuvre and it won me the year’s Patricians’ Award for Civilian Benevolence. I donated my prize to a children’s charity, little as it was. I had to be seen to do my civic duty.

But one monkey refused to go on the grounds that his family had suffered under Dorothy’s hands. He pleaded refugee status and pointed to another long-dead edict that backed up his case. I had to deal with him quickly and quietly. The last thing I needed was a back-log of similar cases. So I did the only thing I could do in this situation: I made him my pet. I called him Turlo because I think that’s what his name sounded like. I couldn’t speak monkey. I still can’t.

When Glinda the Bitch locked me out of my own palace, I lost touch with Turlo. But as happened with Dorothy and the others, his memory faded, too.

“What’s a flying monkey got to do with the price of horse flesh?” I asked Fiyero.

We need to get to where she’s going to be? my other self said.

“She?”

The lady of the manor, so to speak. The new Dorothy.

I looked out through the fog again. “I don’t think I want to go anywhere in that,” I said. “I don’t trust this fog, it’s not natural.”

This is Oz, Fiyero replied. Natural doesn’t come into it, or have you already forgotten?

“Forgotten what?”

Fiyero fished in his pocket and took out a small rectangular piece of machinery. It was black, slim, and fitted neatly in his palm. It glowed green when he pushed a button of some sort. Then he put it to his ear.

Then he spoke into it.

Are you ready for take-off? You are? Good! One passenger, ready to travel to Bright Lettina, economy class.

The next thing I knew I was up in the air.

“Hello boss! Long time no see,” said a voice above me. “You stink of booze, if you don’t mind me saying so.”