A Funny Thing Happened, (Part 4)

A Funny Thing Happened, (Part 4)

Morning found the forest creatures still gathered about Professor Paradox. They had not slept nor had they eaten anything but the few apostrophes that grew at the edge of the wood.

The Professor had eaten nothing at all. "I should have been more persuasive," he chastised himself. "She will be devoured in Emerald City, they will tear her and her 'Stormy Night in Arkansas' to shreds. Why can't people be content with the words that fall from the trees. Why must they think of new things to say. All there is or ever was and ever will be is written on the leaves of the trees."

It was dawn now, and a filmy mist drifted over the grassy fields that separated the forest from Emerald City. "I'll bet she now comes," dangled one of the participles. "Keep a sharp time piece," warned a synonym. Sure enough, a tiny figure could be seen running from the gates of the city.

"It is she!" cried the Professor. "Let us prepare a feast, kill a fatted calf, gather vegetables. Let music sound and roll out a keg of our best marmsey."

They cleared the glade that the witches had lately occupied and set up a table. Cliches from the quagmire, hearing the preparations, and sensing a party in the offing, came running in their best attire, "Age before beauty," cried some, "The exception proves the rule," others laughingly responded. Dorothy would be welcomed with open arms. During her short stay in the forest she had acquired a family who loved her as deeply as her mother and father did back home in Kansas.

As she staggered into the forest, Professor Paradox caught her in his arms and eased her gently to the ground. She was bruised and battered, her manuscript was no longer with her, there was a "kick me" sign stuck to the seat of her jeans. But -- and a very big "BUT" it was, there was a check peeping out from the torn pocket of her blouse.

"What have they done to you, Oh gifted child of letters?" The Professor fussed over her, he dressed her wounds with leaves, each with its own message of condolence.

Through her tears she sobbed, "Oh, Professor, I have witnessed things I cannot repeat, cruel things. It is a city of demons, nothing is sacred there. The blinding inspiration and golden thread of prose, the lilting meter of verse ... there is no respect ... it is stuffed through the meat grinder like pork sausage."

"Hush, child, you are no less a person today than you were yesterday. I should have made a greater effort to keep you from their clutches." He did his best to cheer her. "Come, my dear, you must be hungry. We have prepared a fabulous feast for you with wine, dancing and song. All is not lost. I see your manuscript has been taken from you, but I also see a check. I would suggest you get to the bank as soon as you can."

"But, Professor," Dorothy moaned. "My novel, my novel, they wrested it from my grasp. They gloated and got out their scissors. They said this is grist for the "Star" and the "Enquirer," it must hit the supermarket checkout counters by Saturday morning."

"Come, have a cup of marmsey, my dear. There is nothing like a sweet red wine to make the editing go down."

The check was examined carefully and found to be fully negotiable. It was made out for $350,000 -- fully a thousand times superior to that given Herman Melville for "Moby Dick". A branch of Citibank was conveniently located not too far from the banks of the quagmire and the feast was put on hold until it opened at 9a.m.

"May I stay here in the forest with you and the other creatures of the wood?" Dorothy asked. "I cannot go home to Kansas and write again. I dare not write for fear of being violated by those fiends in Emerald City."

"By all means, stay with us, Dorothy. You need fear no one here."

But such was not to be.

Shortly after the check was cashed and the first of the wine was poured, the sky darkened, a flash of lightning blinded them and a clap of thunder split the heavens.

"It's the Lord God Etymology!" shouted Professor Paradox, "On your knees everyone!"

"Does that include me?" Dorothy asked nervously.

"I don't know, I don't know -- " the Professor was close to panic. "Maybe you'd better, it can't hurt."

Arrival by balloon for a festive occasion is an effective entrance practiced by both Princes and Popes. The altitude lends authority to those of short stature and if you're Lord God of anything you must have people look up to you and goodness knows, in the Pantheon of Gods the God of Etymology is pretty small potatoes.

But it was a beautiful balloon, red, blue and gold, resembling those depicted in French prints of the eighteenth century from which gentlemen in tall silk hats gazed down through their lorgnettes at the peasantry below; the very same peasantry who would later accuse, try, and behead them. The thunder and lightning machine was working flawlessly and the entire paraphernalia set down gently in the center of the glade.

The seat of honor, which was intended for Dorothy was hastily placed at the head of the table to welcome the Lord God of Etymology, who stepped from the gondola and smiled tolerantly at his forest subjects. He remained standing but motioned for everyone to sit. A speech was obviously forthcoming.

"I needn't ask which of you is Dorothy Scrivener, need I?" he began. "Dorothy, you are the only human at this festive board. The rest of us are shadows. We take the words that are scattered among us from on high and from them a patchwork emerges, tales told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

"And Dorothy you want to stay with us? That cannot be permitted. You have free will, you have work to do, you have a lifetime to live, and you must live it. You will be the center of a family. Children at your feet. You will know tragedy, despair and bliss beyond measure. Here, there is nothing for you but the dry dust of semantics. Go home Dorothy. Live your life and write it well. Stay out of this forest of enigma and never return to Emerald City."

"I understand you've just salted away a tidy sum, my dear. It will see you through a semester in Harvard -- I trust you will major in literature, and after a year at Harvard you will have no need of Emerald City or this unweeded garden that has grown to seed.

Professor Paradox would have preferred Dorothy to stay, he had developed a fatherly interest in her, and his mentoring instincts had been thwarted again. But the good Lord God of Etymology was always right -- after all he had nothing else to do.

Dorothy was not entirely satisfied either. After her shocking experience in Emerald City she wanted to curl up and hide in somber obscurity. The forest was an eiderdown of warmth reminiscent of the safety she still remembered in the sweet embrace of her mother's arms and the bristly, cigar scented cheek of her father. Couldn't that immunity last forever, or must it wear off as time and life grind it down?

She looked at Professor Paradox, the three weird sister witches and Professor Virgule. She looked above her at the circling oxymorons, she could hear their plaintive cries, "virtual reality" -- "friendly fire." Somehow their senseless chatter summed up all she had been through the past twenty four hours. The good Lord was right, she must move on. There was a lot of living to do.

She wore no ruby slippers. There were no magic mushrooms and the road back to Kansas was dry and dusty, but she was under the clear blue sky. No words hung from the trees or drifted idly for the picking. Like the rest of her life, her words would be her own.

THE END