Winnie's Courage: Getting Back to Oz, #1

By Jess Reece

What if the Wicked Witch were real?

Winifred Jones wakes up barefoot and bruised in a strange dungeon instead of her cozy San Diego apartment, and things just get weirder from there when she stops Dorothy Gale from murdering the Wicked Witch, accidentally releasing a magical tornado trapped inside a golden compass.

In the blink of an eye, the three women are torn from the Witch's castle in Oz and thrust into one fairytale world of Winnie's childhood after another. Fighting for their lives against man-eating apes, bloodthirsty pirates, and sadistic queens, they share just one common goal: to get back home.

Pick up Getting Back to Oz: Book One Winnie's Courage today, and join Winnie on her quest as she discovers if she has the courage to return home, or stay lost forever in literary lands both familiar and dangerous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jess Reece
• Release date: Jun 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386690795

Jess Reece

Jess Reece was practically born with a pen in her hand. She wrote her first story, about a dog taking a ride on an alien spaceship to the moon, at four years old. As a teenager and young adult, she won various local writing awards for her poetry and short fiction. Jessica's goal is to draw her readers into worlds that are as real to them as they are to her, and have them fall in love with the characters that they get to know. She also writes nonfiction, using her skills to mentor adult survivors of childhood abuse and trauma - healing that pain, sometimes decades old, through creative writing and storytelling. Jessica also paints and designs her book covers, as well as finds time to relax with her husband, daughter, and motley crew of rescue animals.

Book preview

Getting Back to Oz

Book One:

Winnie’s Courage

By

Jess Reece

Copyright © 2017 by Jess Reece

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

To my husband Erik,

This is all your fault. Love you, always.

Chapter 1

Cold seeped into my muscles, and I shivered violently. My head ached, and nausea cramped my belly. Sitting up, I groaned as pain splintered behind my eyes. Stomach clenching in protest, I lay back down to wait for some of the agony in my head to subside.

Where was I?

A memory of falling flashed in my mind. Had I fainted? My mouth was dry and sour, and I wondered if I’d gotten sick on myself. The sound of my heartbeat thudded loud in my ears, pounding in time with the pain crashing through my skull.

Where was Watson?

He should have been here, rubbing his furry cheek against mine and meowing in confusion. Sometimes, if I lay on the floor for too long, he settled on my legs, or curled up in the small of my back. Surely he was somewhere nearby, wondering what I was doing down here instead of feeding him.

It occurred to me that I wasn’t in my apartment, but I didn’t have the energy to analyze that fact just yet. I would figure it out in a minute, when the pain didn’t make my thoughts so fuzzy. My muscles were stiff and on the verge of cramping from laying on a cold, hard floor.

A distant memory flitted through my mind. Once, when I was eleven, I stubbornly refused to come inside during a backyard camp-out. Temperatures had dropped down, much colder than the forecast had predicted, but I had stayed in my pup tent with only a lightweight sleeping bag and a small pillow. My father had been furious with me, but my grandmother convinced him to let me be.

I smiled at the memory, but my cheek felt stiff and strange.

Frowning, I raised a hand to my face, tracing a patch of something crusted and sticky from my temple to my chin. Blood? Alarm spread through me as I recalled tripping and falling onto the coffee table. Prodding the skin around my face, I grimaced and inhaled sharply as I found the raw edges of a swollen cut.

Running a mental check on the rest of my body, I was relieved that I didn’t notice any other injuries. My other cheek rested on a rough wet surface, and something stiff and scratchy poked my bare skin where it touched the ground. The air around me was damp and musty, as if it had not been freshened in a long while.

A cry of pain that wasn’t my own brought me fully alert. Opening my eyes, I pushed myself up with a groan, leaning against the rough stone wall to steady myself. There wasn’t much light to see by, but I spotted the source of the sound a few feet away, huddled in a ball on the floor.

Hey, are you okay? I croaked, surprised by how dry and parched my throat felt. The dampness in the air only made the thirst I was now uncomfortably aware of worse. Another cry escaped my companion, bringing me back to the present. The moan was low, pitiful, and full of suffering.

Are you okay? I asked again, louder this time.

The figure in the corner jumped at the sound of my voice, and after a long moment, rolled over to face me. In the dim light, I couldn’t tell if they were male or female, though I would have picked male if I had to guess. His clothing hung off his thin frame, and his skin was smudged and dirty, with an unmistakable jaundiced tinge to it. A dark iron shackle peeked out from beneath the ragged hem of his pants.

Something about the blunt, square features staring back at me seemed off, somehow. Aside from the yellow skin, his eyes were too close together, and his mouth too wide. Thick, wiry hair framed a face with a broad forehead, but no eyebrows, as if someone had tried to illustrate a person by description alone. He looked mostly human. Whatever was going on here, I had just described someone as mostly human. Deep inside, a rising tide of hysteria mounted quickly, and I stifled a distressed cry, reigning in my absurd thoughts.

Are you a witch, like her? he asked, dread thick in his voice.

A what? I frowned, not comprehending. Of course I’m not a witch. What kind of question is that?

He continued staring at me, tucked tight into himself like a cornered animal. Uneasy at staring back into those haunted, yellow eyes, I looked away. Now that my head wasn’t pounding so fiercely, I could see that we were in a prison cell. No, not just a prison cell: a dungeon.

Confusion and panic reared their heads, and I was close to passing out again. I put both my hands behind my neck, leaning between my knees to breathe. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know why I was in a dungeon. I didn’t know who the person in the cell with me was. And I didn’t know how I would get back home.

Breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, I forced my rising panic back under control. When I lifted my head again, my companion was staring at me, alarmed. I tried smiling to reassure him, though in truth it was much more of a grimace than a grin, especially with all the dried blood on my face.

Can you tell me where I am?

The dungeon. He tilted his head as if I were daft.

Well, duh, Sherlock, I snapped. I figured that much out by myself. But where am I?

You are in the Witch’s castle. He turned back to the wall, ending our brief conversation.

The what? I echoed my earlier words.

I massaged my temples, searching for a thread of logic, for anything at all that might help me make sense of this. Clearly, I wasn’t going to get any help from my cellmate, who had returned to huddling in a ball and moaning again in pain. What I wouldn’t give for an aspirin right now.

A castle? A dungeon? This was a joke, surely; a terrible, absurd joke, but it simply had to be a joke. I looked around the rough-hewn stone walls and floor, then the iron bars at the far end of the cell we were in. This was ridiculous—maybe I was dreaming.

My steadfast denial was shot through by several all too realistic details, however. The floor was strewn with dirty straw, and the walls were dark with damp rivulets of water. The iron bars at the front of the cell were old and pitted with rust, but looked solid. From my seat on the cold floor, I could see that there was a cell across from ours, though it was too dark to see if there were any occupants in that one.

A low, rumbling growl reverberated through the stone I leaned against. I yelped, scooting backwards so quickly that I banged the back of my head against the cell bars. The growl was followed by furious snarling, interspersed with more growling. There was a strange scrabbling noise, like claws on stone, then a muffled cry before it all went quiet again.

I panted hard, wondering what could make a noise like that. My companion didn’t so much as move a muscle at the loud outburst, but remained curled up tight in the corner. Using the cell bars to pull myself up from the floor, I ignored the dull pain in my head that flared bright for a few seconds as I stood up.

My thin tee shirt and cotton pants were no match for the chill, and it didn’t help that I was barefoot. The icy cold sent a deep ache into my toes. Rubbing my arms briskly, I peered through the iron bars. The meager light in the hall was provided by large yellow candles, dripping fat globs of wax from their iron sconces set in the wall. The dark stone glistened with condensation, and more straw was scattered in the passage between the prison cells.

Hello? Is anyone there?

Straw rustled behind me. I turned to see that my cellmate had rolled over, eyes wide with fear. I took a step toward him, misunderstanding his concern.

What are you doing? he whispered. Hush or they’ll hear you!

But I’m just trying to get someone’s attention, I said.

He looked just over my shoulder, and began to sputter. Shaking his head back and forth, he pushed himself into the corner, trying to become as small as possible. I turned, gasping as I came face to face with a menacing, silent figure on the other side of the bars.

A tall man with a stern, jaundiced face scowled at me, but remained silent. He was dressed in what I might have described as military garb, though it appeared out of date and old fashioned. He wore a long, leather duster with tarnished brass buckles that covered a yellow vest. His scarlet jodhpurs were tucked into tall black boots, dirty with dust and refuse.

The silence stretched out until it felt as brittle as a rubber band about to snap. I cleared my throat nervously, and stood up straight. Certain I could explain that this was all just a misunderstanding, I squared my shoulders with false courage, and took a step closer to the bars. The guard shifted subtly, bringing his wicked, curved halberd into view. I froze, unable to tear my eyes away from the gleaming weapon, which looked like a spear, only with a blade at one end and a sharpened pike at the other.

I d-d-demand to know w-w-what’s going on here. You have n-n-no right to keep me prisoner! I said, my shaking voice betraying my bravado.

Prisoners do not make demands.

But I don’t understand why I am even a prisoner, I said, taken aback by his harsh tone.

You are a prisoner because you were caught trespassing on our lands.

How could I have been trespassing? I protested. I don’t even know how I got here!

That’s not my problem. You can plead your case to the Witch, if she’ll see you. He turned on his heel and marched away.

Hey wait! I yelled, shaking the cell bars. Come back!

My shouted words echoed down the stone passage, but the guard did not return. No, no, no! This wasn’t happening. I shook the bars again, then kicked the bar in front of me, remembering too late that my foot was bare. Pain exploded in my toes.

Ahh! I cried, hopping back to the stone wall and sitting down to nurse my bruised foot.

My cellmate just sighed and kept his back turned to me, leaving me to my confused thoughts. The guard’s formal way of speaking was not the least of the odd things that had happened in the last few minutes. I backtracked through everything that I had experienced since I woke up, but no matter which way I looked at it, I couldn’t force it to make sense.

I was half convinced that this was some sort of fever dream, a hyper-detailed illusion, maybe even an elaborate prank. It was all so realistic—too realistic—a small voice deep inside whispering that this couldn’t be just a simple dream. I focused on the last thing that I remembered clearly, falling in my living room, and put a hand to the cut on my head. I closed my eyes, trying to figure out how I got here. Between the pounding in my head, the throbbing in my toe, and the strain of being locked in a strange dungeon, I was exhausted. I couldn’t get my tired brain to chew on the problem anymore, and before I knew it, I drifted off to a fitful sleep.

––––––––

Chapter 2

The microwave beeped from the kitchen. Kicking my heels off with a sigh of relief, I tossed my blouse and skirt into the hamper, then changed into my favorite tee shirt and sweats. I pulled the hot plastic tray out of the microwave with my bare hands, hissing between my teeth. I really should have accepted Annie’s invitation to join the girls from the office for happy hour, I thought, looking at my Lean Cuisine Ginger Garlic Stir Fry with Chicken entrée.

Poor Annie. No matter how many times I said no when she tried to include me in group outings, she never gave up. It took a special kind of persistent kindness to invite everyone, even those of us that were too shy or awkward to join in.

I opened a bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz and poured a glass, giving my food a chance to cool. Balancing my dinner tray on top of my wineglass, I swiped the TV remote from the end table as I sat down on the couch. I flipped through the channels mindlessly as I ate, finally settling on a sitcom everyone at work had been raving about. The main characters seemed likable enough, but after about two minutes of the constant, grating laugh track, I was ready to mute the television.

It had been close to three months since I had been out with friends, or on a date of any kind, for that matter. I felt like kicking myself. It would just be a matter of time before my coworkers gave up on me altogether, I thought as I took another bite of my food.

All too soon, my dinner was finished, and I headed back to the kitchen to drop the empty tray into the trash. A twinge of embarrassment poked at me as I reached for the wine bottle to refill my glass. Here it was, another lonely Friday night, and I had only my bottle of Yellowtail, the TV, and Watson to keep my company. He wasn’t an overly affectionate fellow, however, and sometimes ignored me completely. At the moment he was nowhere to be seen, so perhaps I would just count the wine and the television as my companions tonight.

The credits rolled past the screen, and I turned the TV off in disgust. I had no memory of what I had watched in the last half hour, and if I was being honest, I wasn’t in the mood for watching anything anyway. I hopped off the couch to refill my now twice-empty glass. Before I got to the kitchen, I paused in front of one of my most prized possessions, the antique mahogany bookcase I’d inherited from my grandmother. It was a stunning, hand-crafted piece of furniture that stretched from floor to ceiling. I had filled it over the years with my favorite books, photographs, and collectibles.

I trailed my fingers over the worn spines, protective dust jackets, and silver photo frames. With a melancholy sigh, I continued to the kitchen. Emptying the last of the wine into my glass, I felt only a little self-conscious about having polished off an entire bottle by myself in one sitting. On my way back to the living room, I pulled my all-time favorite book from the bookshelf. Curling up on the couch with the chenille throw blanket I kept on the back of the couch, I opened The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and began reading.

There was something comforting about losing myself in a world with characters that I loved. Following their adventures, sharing their victories and defeats—it felt like home. They were often more real to me than the people I worked with and saw every day.

Sadness swept through me and my eyes went a little misty. It had been just over a year since my father had passed away unexpectedly. The ache of his loss was almost as sharp now as it had been in the first few weeks after his death.

From the age of five, when my mother had walked out the door with an apology, a framed wedding picture, and an old suitcase, it had just been the two of us. He had shared with me his great love of books every night as he leaned against the cushions on my bed, listening to his rumbling voice carrying me away to exotic lands and adventurous worlds.

On my sixteenth birthday, he had surprised me with a beautiful, leather bound set of my favorite classic novels. I glanced over at the row of old books, taking in such well-loved titles as Pride and Prejudice, Tales from the Arabian Nights, Gulliver’s Travels, and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. The one in my hands was my absolute favorite, however, and though I was always careful to protect the spine and avoid dog-earing the pages, it was obvious that this book had been read many times over the years.

As I joined Dorothy on her adventures through the amazing land of Oz, I suddenly found my eyes drifting closed. I shook my head, looked at my wineglass, and saw that it was half-empty. That wouldn’t do. I mean, I might not have been a world traveler like some of the characters in the books I loved, but even I knew that it was bad form to let the wine go to waste.

I reached for my glass, but stopped short as the room wobbled. I chuckled at myself. Winifred jones, you have had too much to drink. Shaking my head to clear the wine-induced fuzz in my brain, I reached for my glass once more, took a small sip, and returned to Dorothy and her friends.

My thoughts wandered from the story, back to the first time I remembered reading this story with my dad. I had dreamed of going on my own adventures, then, my six-year-old-self dreaming of finding my own pair of silver slippers and exploring a city made entirely of emeralds. I smiled at the memory, and wondered if my father had known how much our nighttime reading ritual had meant to me.

If I was honest with myself, I would admit that his death had given me another reason to shut myself away from the world—a world that had always been too loud, too bright, and too much my entire life. Reading was a gift that had allowed me to escape, if just for a short time, and it was something I would always be grateful for. Books didn’t care if you were shy, or sad, or lonely, or wanted to be by yourself. They were always there, and that comforted me in a way few people in my life could understand.

Watson jumped onto my lap with a loud meow, startling me out of my reverie. If this wasn’t the picture perfect postcard of spinsterhood, I didn’t know what was. The lazy mooch turned in a circle, finally settling himself on my legs and closed his eyes, purring contentedly. I stroked the soft fur between his ears, envying his pampered highness. Things were definitely going downhill if I was feeling jealous of a cat.

That’s okay, buddy, I said out loud, reassuring myself more than him, and squishing his cheeks between my hands. You’re all I need.

Watson yawned and tucked his head back onto his paws. I finished the last of my wine, and went back to my book. Flipping through the pages, I followed along with the story quickly, almost entirely from memory.

There were so many adventures between Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion that had never made it from the page to the screen version that most people were familiar with. Judy Garland and Margaret Hamilton had done a fantastic job, but I guess I had always been a purist about keeping movies true to the books they were based on. Many animated discussions were had between my father, grandmother, and myself about what should have been included, and what shouldn’t have been changed.

Watson purred loudly as he slept, and I continued to scratch his head between his ears. Looking wistfully at my empty glass, I sternly reminded myself that if I opened another bottle, I would surely regret it in the morning. I was just about to move the cat off of my lap to get up and get a glass of water, when the room wobbled again.

I looked at Watson in alarm as the room began to spin in earnest. This was more than some inebriated fuzziness, and I wondered if I was going to be sick. I lurched up from the couch, dumping the cat onto the floor in a disgruntled heap. The book fell from my lap, bounced off the arm of the couch, and landed on the carpet a few feet away. I took a step, and my feet tangled up in the chenille throw. Before I could do anything to stop my fall, I went down hard. I hit the edge of the couch, then slammed into the coffee table, catching my temple on the corner.

Pain splintered through my skull as lights sparkled behind my eyes for a few seconds. I landed with a thump on the floor, crying out at the pain. Closing my eyes against the throbbing in my head, I raised myself carefully up to my hands and knees. I felt a tickle at my temple, opened my eyes, and stared in dull surprise as a bright red drop splashed onto the back of my hand.

I shook my head slightly, and several more drops plopped onto the carpet. I rubbed the back of my hand across my forehead and looked at the bright red smear in consternation as I brought my hand away. I might need stitches. The thought of a needle and thread near my eye made me feel positively green.

I had never been one to faint at the sight of blood, but I certainly wasn’t a fan when it was my own blood. As I stared at the evidence of my abrupt meeting with the coffee table, I felt the room wobble again and wondered if it was the same strange phenomenon as before, of if I truly was on the edge of passing out.

My book had fallen open on the carpet, and at the moment was mere inches away from me. The edges of my vision began to darken, and I couldn’t look away from the pages open before me. The black letters jumped out from the stark white pages.

The reason the Lion did not have to do as the Witch wished was that every night, while the woman was asleep, Dorothy carried him food from the cupboard. After he had eaten he would lie down on his bed of straw, and Dorothy would lie beside him and put her head on his soft, shaggy mane, while they talked of their troubles and tried to plan some way to escape. But they could find no way to get out of the castle, for it was constantly guarded by the yellow Winkies, who were slaves of the Wicked Witch and too afraid of her not to do as she told them.

The girl had to work hard during the day, and often the Witch threatened to beat her with the same old umbrella she always carried in her hand. But, in truth, she did not dare to strike Dorothy, because of the mark upon her forehead. The child did not know this, and was full of fear for herself and Toto. Once the Witch struck Toto a blow with her umbrella and the brave little dog flew at her and bit her leg in return. The Witch did not bleed where she was bitten, for she was so wicked that the blood in her had dried up many years before.

Before I knew it, all the strength went out of my arms. I collapsed forward in a graceless heap. A slight breeze from the air vent on the wall fluttered the pages in front of me. As I lost consciousness, I was filled with the impression of fluttering, whirling, spinning pages dancing in a wild flurry around me. The room began to spin faster, and I felt my stomach heave as it seemed that the floor fell away from under me. Darkness reached for me with open arms, and I sank into it gratefully.

Chapter 3

Loud metallic clanging jolted me from disjointed dreams of book pages fluttering like snow while leering yellow faces peered out at me from between the falling pages. I opened my sleep-crusted eyes to see a guard banging a short rod against the iron bars. Though still dim, the light in the dungeon was brighter than before, so bright I had to blink away tears.

On your feet! the guard shouted, banging the rod against the bars again. The jarring sound vibrated through my skull, which was still throbbing with the headache left over from yesterday. My cellmate was already on his feet, standing still and looking at the ground. Using the wall for support, I pulled myself to my feet.

The guard moved onto the next cell, banging away at the bars and shouting at the prisoner there. He was answered with a low growl. He banged the cell bars even harder. The growl turned into a snarl, and the guard jabbed the long, curved end of his halberd into the cell. I stepped closer to the bars, curious to see what would happen next.

A guttural yelp echoed through the dungeon. Another thrust from the guard’s weapon was followed by vicious snarling. Dragging, clanking chains scraped along the floor, and the guard leaped backwards as a massive, furry paw with six long claws swiped at him.

He flipped his halberd over; at the other end was the steep cap, honed to a sharp point, which he thrust deep into the cell at the creature, driving it backwards. The growling died down into a barely-heard rumble. The guard waited a moment, but no further rebellion seemed to be forthcoming, and he moved on, banging the rod on the other cells as if nothing had happened.

What was that? I turned to my yellow-faced companion. He just shrugged. What’s happening?"

It’s time to work, he said simply, still looking down at the floor.

At the far end of the passage, the pounding of many booted feet captured my attention. Two by two, guards lined up next to each cell. They began opening the doors, and marching prisoners out of the cells in pairs.

The guards that stopped in front of our cell ordered us to stand against the back wall. The door was unlocked, and one of them stepped inside, deftly attaching a length of chain to the shackle on my cellmate’s ankle. He approached me next, and I saw the second shackle hanging open at the other end of the chain. Shaking my head, I backed up into the corner, wild eyes darting between him and the door.

Don’t even think about it, he warned in a deep, gravelly voice.

Please, I whimpered, pressing myself hard against the rough stone behind me. Please don’t. I didn’t do anything wrong!

He just grunted, and lunged close, clapping the iron shackle on my leg before I could away.

Move! he ordered, pushing us out of the cell ahead of him.

I hobbled forward, restricted by the short length of chain between my foot and the yellow man shackled to me. We had to wait for another set of prisoners to pass before we could continue forward, and I tried to relieve the pain from the iron cuff biting into my skin. In short order we jockeyed into position, and moved forward all together.

Progress was slow because we had to match our steps together, and navigating the stairs was especially difficult, as the stairwell was too narrow for us to march shoulder to shoulder. I stubbed my toe several times on the sharp stone steps, and had rubbed most of the skin on my soles raw by the time we reached the top. I stumbled in the bright courtyard, rewarded for my clumsiness with a sharp jab between my shoulders by the guard behind me.

My throat felt like sandpaper, parched and scratchy as the desert. As we moved forward across the flagstones, I felt lightheaded. Every time I slowed down, however, I received another rude poke in the back. There was bustling movement all around our chain gang, and the commotion of castle residents going about their daily tasks. Between the noise, bright light, and the pain in my feet, I simply couldn’t take another step.

I collapsed in a graceless swoon.

Go away Watson, I mumbled, swatting at him as he pawed at my back. It’s not time to feed you yet.

The poking resumed. Irritated, I rolled over and opened my eyes. Instead of the familiar, orange-furred face of my cat, however, a stocky yellow man with light brown eyes was crouched over me. A scream erupted from my throat, and I scrambled backwards, stopping only when I reached the end of the length of chain attached to my ankle. The gleaming steel point of a razor sharp halberd came whistling down toward my head, and for a split second I thought I would pass out again.

Halt, a stern voice thundered. I looked up at the guard holding the pike as he stepped toward me and I couldn’t stop the frightened whimper that escaped me.

Please, I croaked. Water!

He looked around, the stern expression vanishing from his face, almost as if he was concerned someone else had heard my plea. I opened my mouth to beg again for water, but he shook his head back and forth. He grabbed my upper arms, hauling me up and setting me back on my feet.

There, he said close to my ear, pointing to the gate at the far end of the courtyard. Water is there, now march!

Pushing me back in line, we moved forward again. I kept my eye on the open gate in the castle’s curtain wall, the promise of water keeping me going. We reached the other side of the gate, and I was surprised to see miles of flat, yellow grassland all around us dotted here and there with squat, yellow, willow-like trees. Off in the distance, the road we currently stood on ended perpendicular to a T, the distance crossroad gleaming bright in the sun, as if it were made of gold.

A sudden tug on the chain at my ankle almost knocked me off my feet. I looked back from the winding, golden ribbon in the distance to see my fellow prisoner glaring at me. He made a move as if to yank on the chain again. I scurried forward, not wanting to receive another sharp jab in the back, or feel the cold bite of metal on my ankle.

The guard stopped us near a shed, of sorts, and I could have wept at the glorious sight of a water barrel in the shade of a small grove of the short yellow trees with a drinking ladle hanging from a hook on the side. The prisoners lined up ahead of me each received their ladle of water, then were handed a type of farming implement. I hopped from foot to foot, as I waited for my turn, desperate to relieve the burning thirst in my throat.

I reached the barrel and scooped several ladles of water into my mouth before it was slapped out my hand. The guard near the barrel gestured for me to move on, and I shuffled away with my shackle-buddy, unable to stop the whimper of disappointment that I wasn’t able to have more. We were each handed the farming tool, which was something between a scythe and long-handled spade, and motioned to head out into the field where the others before us had already gone.

The bottoms of my feet were now bloody in some places, leaving behind small red splatters as I moved down toward the field. I tried to keep up as well as I could, but my limping slowed us down. The guard closest to me gave me a shove. I tripped, catching my toe on a half-buried rock in the dirt, and splitting the skin there wide open. Tears poured down my face, and my breath came in gulping sobs as I held my poor foot in my hands, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

The guard that had pushed me stepped towards me with raised fists, and something inside me snapped. I had had enough. I didn’t know what I could have done to get thrown in a dungeon, I had no idea how to even begin working on getting home, and now I had quite possibly broken my toe. I struggled to my feet, careful to keep my bleeding toe off the ground. He took one more step, and I drew myself up to my less-than-imposing height of five feet two inches, wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands, and jabbed an angry finger in his direction.

Now you listen to me, I shouted. I don’t know who you think you are, but pushing people around with no shoes while their feet are bleeding is ridiculous! I am not moving one more inch until I get some bandages, some Neosporin, and a pair of shoes.

He stared at me with wide eyes, taken aback by my outburst, and actually took a step away from me before looking around at the other guards.

Why are you still standing there? Go, get the things I said, because I tell you what, I have had it with this place, and I haven’t even been here one day. This is a fine way to treat a lost stranger, I tell you what. Go! I shouted, waving my arms in the direction of the castle. I turned away from him with my nose in the air, gave a withering glare to my cellmate, who had been watching me with nothing less than horror, and promptly sat down on the ground. The other prisoners stared at me with varying degrees of disbelief, fear, and admiration on their faces.

I checked over my shoulder, and saw the guards talking. The one that I had yelled at gave a shrug, turned and trotted back up to the castle. The remaining guard watched me, holding his halberd in front of him as if I was going to attack him at any moment. As I held my injured foot, I wondered what kind of threat an injured woman could possibly be. My outrage was cooled by the throbbing pain in my foot, and tears filled my eyes once more.

A short time later, the guard returned with a parcel under his arms. He opened the canvas bag, and crouching near me, withdrew a small bundle of clean cloths, a pair of worn leather boots, and a small metal tin. He set the boots and tin next to me, and handed me the rags.

I hissed in pain as I pressed the cloth tight against my toe, applying as much pressure as I could tolerate to get the bleeding to stop. Pulling off the lid of the tin, I saw a light yellow salve inside. I crinkled my nose at the sharp, sickly-sweet smell, but quickly applied the ointment before I could change my mind. The bleeding stopped almost right away, much to my surprise, as well as the throbbing pain in my toe.

Winding the rest of the rags around my toes and the bottoms of my feet, I pulled the knee-high leather boot on over the bandages, thankful to find that they fit quite well. Though they were worn, they were made with excellent quality leather, and were still in good condition. It was a little challenging to get the leather boot shank slipped under the shackle on my other foot. The guard made no move to help, so after a lot of tugging, I finally got it pulled up over my calf. Once I had them on, I got to my feet, relieved to find that there was barely any pain.

I picked up my scythe, and shuffled after the rest of the prisoners down to the field we were to be working. Swinging the tool just right required skill that I didn’t possess. My lack of coordination would have been comical if not for the chance of hurting myself and my partner. I hacked at the waist-high grass, destroying more of the crop than I harvested, but every time I slowed down, the guard was right there, poking me in the back again, so I just tried my best to keep up with the others.

Chapter 4

The heavy scent of roses and cinnamon filled the air as we harvested the yellow grass. Others followed behind to gather and move the bundles close to the road. I pieced together from the hushed conversations around me that this grass was an important resource. The people here used it for textiles, similar to hemp. They used it for food, harvesting the grains like wheat to make a creamy mash and also a type of bread out of it. They even used it as a type of tinder for heating the castle.

Sweat stung my eyes and had pooled uncomfortably under my arms and around my waistband by the time the guards announced a break at midday. I gulped down a few ladles of water as quick as I could before I was pushed aside to make way for the next prisoner. I rested in the shade, lying down to try to ease my aching back and wishing fiercely for a cool breeze. I covered my eyes with my arm, unable to ignore my injured toe any longer as it throbbed in time with my heartbeat, now that the pain relieving salve had worn off.

From under my arm, I glanced at the others, noting their vacant, weary expressions, and wondered how long they had each been here. The guards surrounded our group, halberds held at the ready. How ridiculous, I snorted. Considering the broken, exhausted spirits of those around me, a prisoner uprising should have been the least of the guards’ worries.

I groaned as we were ordered back to our feet. It seemed impossible, but they hurt even more after our rest. The scythe slipped out of my hands a few times, and once I came very close to losing a finger on the sharp blade. Irritated grunts from my companion followed each mishap, and I found my own impatience growing. Missing a whole swath of grass in my anger, I spun almost all the way around and nearly took out the chained prisoners next to us. The guards then ordered me to the much less dangerous task of gathering up bundles of cut grass, much to the annoyance of my unwilling partner.

After a few more hours, the signal was finally given to stop for the day. Instead of heading over to the water barrel, as I hoped, we were forced to line up along the sides of the road. At least they let me keep the boots, I consoled myself, shuffling from foot to foot to ease the burning ache in my toe. I looked around for the guard with the tine of salve, but I couldn’t tell one yellow face from another.

I leaned around the prisoners lined up in front of me, wondering what we were waiting for. A tremendous crack echoed around us, followed by vicious snarling. I watched as a creature was driven forward from the castle. It was a great, hulking thing, with brown fur and tall, sloping shoulders like a grizzly bear. Instead of the broad, scooped forehead of a bear, however, it had the round, tufted face of a ferocious tiger, and dark stripes on its fur to match. Long, stained canines flashed as it lunged snapping at its handlers.

Kalidah, my brain whispered. I knew this beast, even if I had never seen anything like it before. I had read about it, though. No, I shook my head. It couldn’t be.

It was harnessed to a low cart by leather straps attached to a wicked-looking double-pronged collar. Like those sometimes used on dogs, this spanned the beast’s neck so that prongs poked its neck as well as bristling outward. A long whip with metal barbs at the tips snapped across the broad, brown shoulders, spurring it forward, then snapped again to stop it at each bundle of yellow grass piled next to the road.

As the cart pulled up to where I waited, the beast swung its huge head in my direction. Fear rooted me to the spot as I stared directly into its large, intelligent eyes. A snarl burbled up deep in its throat, but I couldn’t look away. The snarl escalated into a roar, and it lunged toward me. The whip snaked out, striking the tender skin of the animal’s snout with the hooked, silver tips. Howling in pain, and spraying fine droplets of blood, it lunged at me again. The whip cut into its face once more, and it finally backed down.

With trembling hands, I helped to get our bundles up onto the cart, and jumped backwards as the whip cracked again. When the last bundle was loaded, and all of the prisoners had stepped back into line, the cart was turned around to be pulled back up to the castle. We shuffled along slowly, weary from the long day. I stared at the ground in front of me, too tired even to look around me.

Following the loaded cart across the moat, I noticed the cruelly sharp boulders, and iron spears instead of water below. A glint of yellow against the gray rocks caught my eye. Interested, I looked closer, and saw more pieces of yellow straw scattered over the boulders. Near the biggest pile of straw was some scraps of brightly colored fabric—plaid, calico, and hounds tooth.

A furtive motion near the inner castle wall drew my attention away from the odd piles of straw. The beast with the cart was nowhere in sight, but a young woman, notably without yellow skin, skipped across the courtyard