Chapter two: The Tin Man Runs the Town
Chapter Two
(Previously in Chapter One: Nick is pulled against The Tree’s trunk now, but he will not give up, ever, and flails away, against all hope, increasingly desperate but the odds of escape lower every moment.)
The Tin Man’s punch obliterates one of the branches holding Nick, wood and bark exploding, the sound like a bomb that does not yet exist.
The Tree lets out an extended angry hiss, as if raindrops sizzling on hot metal, the forest fog seems turned to steam, a wicked song of pain and fury.
Nick’s wrist still in its grip the Tin Man’s fist decimates the next thick crackling branch.
The Tree is done. It lifts its other branches high to avoid any more blows. It continues to hiss, but grows quieter, no longer animate.
Nick’s wrist is raw, his hands bloody. He and the Tin Man’s gaze have not broken. The Forest is completely silent except for Nick’s labored breath and the slow hissing exhale of the Tree. The birds above hold their song, the fog drifts by, a silent witness.
Nick and the Tin Man too still and quiet.
Nick is not in charge of this interaction and waits for whatever comes next.
The other Tin Men have been watching in silence, unmoving and unmoved by Nick’s plight - there is work to be done.
With no change in expression, the Tin Man turns back toward his group, joins them, and they continue their methodical metallic stomp through The Forest, eventually again swallowed by the trees and thick brush.
Nick looks back up at his nemesis, but whatever haunting, whatever dark Magic took possession of it, has dissipated, and its branches stretch wide into the canopy and resume their ancient job of shade and shelter.
Brushing away fragments of bark, Nick steps back onto the worn dirt path as a cluster of birds above announce this new moment in this new day, and he continues, faster now, to the Mill, for there is work to be done.
As Nick gets closer to the Mill he starts running through a little bit of a mental checklist, what’s in the queue to get done today, who’s working the blade today, who’s out in the Forest chopping or scouting. Nick likes his job. He likes the responsibility, he likes working with the Old-Timers, their wild stories of stumbling onto some arcane magic in the Haunted Forest or finding themselves atop one of the giant Forest trees, catching glimpses of the Flying Monkey Tribe far out in the desert, circling high in the red desert sky, nightmares waiting to descend.
And it is not all drudgery of course. After nearly every workday some will gather at Calista’s Pub, and raise a glass, sometimes many more, to the day, to the Wizard, and song will break out. The men (and it’s only men, with the exception of Calista herself) will argue, laugh, sing, eventually tire out - for their work is exhausting, and the ale is strong - and they will head home.
Mr. Nick, Nick’s father, is almost always present, Nick less so. After work, he will usually meet with Amee, and if his mom, and Amee’s mom, are both safe and at home, he and Amee will share some time together. Just not at the Pub. There are no rules that say, ‘no women allowed’, but no woman ever sets foot in there. There are no rules that say ‘stay off the Yellow Brick Road’ or ‘don’t go to the Emerald City’ either, but everyone behaves as if there is. Know your place seems to be the main rule.
Nick is in a trot now, and in the distance, the Mill. Nick practically grew up here. The hard work, the camaraderie of the men, the feeling that what they are doing matters. Someday, all this work will lead them back Home. Nick prays to The Mysteries some nights about it. He doesn’t pray for himself. He prays for his Mom, and for his Dad. He prays that The Mysteries will turn The Wizard’s dream into reality. The Wizard’s dream is the dream they all share. And Nick’s small dream is that this Great Return happens while his Mom and Dad are still alive. His Mom is not really in the present moment enough anymore to share this dream, but Nick’s great hope is that she will live to experience the Great Return, and somehow, this will shake her awake, this will be the moment, somehow, that all will be made right with this world.
Nick has this feeling, deep in him, that at that moment of Return, all of the OZians will somehow experience love. No, that’s not it. Maybe it’s peace? He has this vision of all OZians somehow feeling a deep togetherness. Maybe love. Maybe peace. He wants his Mom and Dad to feel that. Whatever that moment brings forth, Nick knows it will be monumental. OZ will be different in every way at that moment, and every moment after. But the planning for it has been happening for as long as he can remember, and for as long Mr. Nick can remember - there is no one in The Forest who can remember a time when this was not being planned. Nick puts the thought of ‘when will it happen’ out of his head. Everyone does. It serves no good purpose, to question The Wizard, his plans, his leadership. The Great and Powerful Wizard will know when the time is right - when conditions are perfect. When it’s time to move, to march, and to fight. To reclaim what is rightfully theirs. What a day that will be.
Nick thinks there must be battalions training right now to do battle across the expanse of the Red Desert against the clever but ruthless Flying Monkey Tribe, against the brutal Grinders, who are as stupid as they are strong, and against the Wicked Witch. The Wicked Witch, the Great Instigator, the reason for all this despair. Little seen in the flesh, she is more a constant existential presence, the consequences of her very real evil actions felt every day in the real life of the OZians.
The Wizard has made it clear that this is the Evil that must be defeated someday - when they are ready - lumber crossing the desert, battalions trained, the Great Exodus will begin. Occasionally the Witch and her minions, which at any time might include a swarm of huge black bees, her maniacal murder of crows that feed on the awful energy of The Witch, or the fearsome packs of black Wolves that do her every bidding, appear. Not that those compatriots are needed for The Witch to both mesmerize and terrorize the Forest or Carny Town, or the Emerald City itself.
Evil incarnate, twisting through the air - sometimes the sound alone, of her velocity, joined by the screeching caws of the crows driven insane, is enough for terror to live for hours, for days, in the hearts of the OZians. It is rare for anything to actually happen. She doesn’t land in the Forest and start spell-casting. The flythroughs just seem designed to paralyze them, or at last remind them what terror feels like. Nick is certain that the reason she rarely lands is that she must know that the Wizard would decimate her.
He’s here! The Mill. Multistory, many windows, faded grey wood construction, it looms over the rushing creek that it traverses like a Sphinx. Logs sit ready to enter the Mill and the sound of saws buzzing gets louder with every step closer he gets. Another day about to begin.
He gets to the stairs leading up two stories, going up two at a time. And he’s in the door.
Nick! You’re late!
Sam yells over the din of the saws. He’s smiling though. The only reason Sam mentions Nick’s arrival time is because it’s so rare for him to not be here early, let alone late. Nick grabs a clipboard, and puts on his earpieces, leather straps and wolf fur, covering his ears completely. The shriek of the saw is practically demonic. Exposure to this would render him not just deaf, but probably insane over time.
He makes his way across the floor, past the saws, various other workers raising their hands in silent salute to Nick, and he reciprocates. He has a little office he’ll soon settle into, and make sure things are running as they ought to be. He closes the door and goes over to a large wooden window covering and latch. He pulls on the latch, swings it open, looks outside onto the Mill grounds. The window opens to the outside, no glass separating him from the fresh air. The window is the only source of light in here, though several candles sit ready, and used, on his desk.
He sits down. The room is spare, to say the least. His chair, the desk, both wooden. The candles. His clipboard and quill, his inkpot. That’s it. Electricity exists in OZ but is mysterious and has an aura of Magic all its own. It is known only as “The Power” and seems to be within the complete control of The Wizard, although this is truly just an assumption everyone has made.
So many things in OZ are a mystery that one just lives with. When Mystery and Magic are your constant companions during your day, a culture is created that always seems on the verge of destabilizing. An undercurrent of both impermanence and dark potential. The Wizard himself seems to be the one constant. Always there, always powerful, always taking care of every OZian.
This is how it seems to every OZian. Most have never seen him, though sometimes a decree will spread through the people, posters appear nailed to trees, word of a great speech makes its way to The Forest. Despite this invisible omniscience, doubt doesn’t breed or grow in its shadow. As if The Wizard were somehow able to transmit assurance and conviction directly to each OZian.
Nick dips his quill into the black ink and starts to scratch out the beginnings of a report At the end of each week, Nick packs up his reports, as a horseman awaits outside the Mill. He’ll hand a satchel filled with the reports to the horseman, and he will off. Galloping away in what seems like a mission of meaning, the Horseman spurs the Stallion immediately, as if The Wizard himself were waiting impatiently for this very missive.
And yet Nick has never - not once - received a response to, or even acknowledgement of, these painstakingly derived reports. Occasionally a thought will flit across Nick’s awareness – why? But when it does, it is as if an iron door swung shut, Nick on the other side, and in that moment the thought is gone as if it never existed.
As Nick starts to get lost in the dutiful writing of his report, outside a distant voice calls.
Unintelligible.
Nick looks up from the report, senses alert now – that’s his Dad’s voice.
He rushes to the window and can just barely see his Dad still making his way to the Mill at the edge of the Forest. His voice – Nick has never heard this tone of voice from his father.
Nick! Help me! NICK!
His father stumbles out of the Forest brush, Nick can clearly see him now.
Mr. Nick is nearly naked, his clothes in shreds, bleeding, halting steps - he falls to his knees, arms outstretched, a silent sign, a plea, he is looking right at Nick frozen in the distant window of the Mill.
With great effort, Mr. Nick manages one more hoarse brutal yell
NICK!!!
And he collapses.