Page 43 of Son of a Witch (The Wicked Years 2)

Liir was happy to oblige. His old garments, which had been placed in a bin for disposal, were dug out and tossed at him. Wriggling into them, Liir noticed an unfamiliar snugness. As if his limbs were lengthening after just one flight.

The rest of his life, and all its possibilities, were spread like a landscape before him, and he couldn’t help taking in three or four breaths, keenly and quickly, to sample the day. The air was bracing and his blood quickened. He felt as lithe and full of ginger as that cunning Shell had seemed. Liir could commit a crime, or…or banter with fellows on the street…or wink at a girl and cadge a kiss. That’s what people did. He could do that.

Soon. First he answered the summons of a carillon and presented himself on the broad steps of a church. He had a dim memory of mauntish prayers, but not of services, and this morning he felt worthy enough to feel humble. He would prostrate himself before whatever-it-was-in-there, and thank the Unnamed God for having brought him that close to Nor. And ask what next.

The doors were flung open and the service just starting. Was it a holiday, and he hadn’t known? Or were churches in the Emerald City always this thronged? Peering between the unstooped shoulders of gentlemen standing in the vestibule, Liir caught sight of the wide, bright room, a preacher of some sort declaiming from a plinth to a sea of faces varnished with rapture or, at any rate, close attention.

“I’m sure our Unnamed God requires of us conviction and perseverance. I’m sure our Unnamed God grants us the privilege of obedience. In the face of uncertainty, the one thing we can be sure of is the value of certainty. And the Unnamed God bestows upon us the balm of certainty.”

He’s sure of a lot, thought Liir; how consoling to stand within the sound of such confidence. And the way he rolls “our Unnamed God” off his tongue—the our might as well be my, he’s that well placed. People say “my God!” all the time, but usually they mean “oh shit.” He means something better.

Liir stood on his toes. The homilist was an affable older man, neither handsome nor plain—rather forgettable, but radiant with the effort of explaining the Unnamed God to all these devout, and devoutly interested, people. He looked a bit like an animated puppet, tufts of hair behind his ears taking a red tint from the colored windows behind him. “Let us continue this celebration of Thanksgiving for our deliverance from the Witch. Our independence from the Wizard and our relief from the Witch bring all of Oz to a new chance for greatness. Miss Grayling will lead us in Anthem Eleven: ‘One Truth, One Truth Alone.’”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. The room was so very crowded, and now skirts rustled and scratched, boots scuffled, as people rose to sing. He didn’t know the anthem but the refrain was simple enough.

“One truth alone we hear:

Your secret holy plan.

With so much yet to fear,

We trust what truth we can.”

The choir sang an unintelligible verse and the chorus began again, and this time Liir tried to join in, but an usher grabbed him by the collar and sidled him backward over the threshold.

“I know what you’re after,” said the usher. “Any cash in these pockets goes into the collection plate.”

“I’m not a pickpocket,” said Liir.

“Oh? You didn’t exactly dress for the service.” The usher had a point. Compared to the pious at noisy prayer, Liir looked like a peasant. “Catch you inside again, I’ll alert the constable, who’s sitting in the back row on the ready.”

“Sorry,” said Liir. But he found he could listen from the top step almost as well, and the air was nicer outside anyway—not so clotted with perfume and incense.

At the base of the wide stairs loitered a group of urchins, the oldest at least four or five years younger than Liir. They looked up at him as if he were one of them. “You don’t go in either?” he asked them.

“Never had a chance,” said one; “Never wanted a chance,” added another.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Charity pennies when the service lets out, stupid.”

“Oh. Right. Don’t you get cold?”

“No,” said a small girl missing some front teeth. “We fights a lot to keep warm.”

“It’s a good song,” said Liir. “Can you hear it from down there?”

“Don’t know hymny-singing.”

He began to hum the melody and came down a few steps. “One truth alone we hear,” he said with bright enunciation, “your secret holy plan.”

They liked the sound of a secret holy plan. “What is it?” said the gap-toothed girl.

“It’s secret, stupid,” said the older boy.

“Shut up,” said Liir, happy to be bringing joy and religion to the masses. “Your secret holy plan…get it? Da da da something, we trust what truth we can. Now there’ll be another verse and they’ll start over. Everyone ready?”

“You’re a ragamuffin cleric,” said an older girl, but she sang when the chorus came around again, and the others chimed in with more gusto than grace until the usher came out with the constable, and they all had to scatter.

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