The Magic Scroll of Oz

By Ray Kelley

There's been a robbery in the Emerald City, and the only thing missing is a scroll. But this is no ordinary scroll; it's a magic scroll with the power to alter reality itself. If it's not recovered quickly, the entire Land of Oz could be in peril. Dorothy Gale has been living a quiet life on Jack Pumpkinhead's farm for many years, content to lose herself in simple labors as she tries to put the adventures of her youth behind her. But when Princess Ozma calls upon her once again, she finds that she has no choice but to answer. Accompanied by her old friends the Lion, Tik-Tok and the Sawhorse, Dorothy sets out to find and bring back the Magic Scroll and save Oz from possible destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Kelley
• Release date: Feb 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386434955

Ray Kelley

Ray Kelley is a native of Tennessee and in addition to writing in a number of different genres, also enjoys... Okay, let's cut the crap. You know it's just me writing this. I can't afford an editor to write a bio for me. Hell, I can't even afford a cover artist. I made the cover for this book in Photoshop, Paint, and Word. Not too bad, considering I'm not much of an artist. I've written some other stuff, but you've probably never heard of it and I've taken it down. The only other thing I have up right now is The Magic Scroll of Oz and it's pretty good. This was fun to write. I love spoofy sci-fi. If enough people want, I'll write another one of these. Or not. Whatever.

Book preview

Chapter 1: A Visit from Glinda

The whole house was spinning, spinning so fast that the world outside her window was smeared into one big blur. She clung fearfully to her bed for a while, terrified. But strangely, her fear faded as she began to recognize an almost unnaturally gentle touch in the raging cyclone that had uprooted the little Kansas farmhouse to carry her away from her Uncle Henry and Aunt Em. She wasn’t being violently dashed about the room as one might expect under the circumstances, but rather gently rocked back and forth as if she were lying in the bottom of a boat as it drifted lazily across a still lake. It was almost soothing, reassuring, as if someone or something was trying to calm her fears.

Of course, that was absurd. And yet, it seemed to be working. She closed her eyes, and felt Toto’s cold little nose nuzzling at her cheek. She let loose her grip upon the mattress and took the little black dog in her arms as she allowed herself to be spirited away by a dream. The world she knew passed beneath her as she dreamed, dreamed of things she’d not yet seen nor imagined. Dreamed of a world of colors beyond the dusty gray Kansas prairie she’d called home since she’d first been able to speak the word. Dreamed of sweetly singing birds, cooling summer breezes and gently rolling hills covered in lush green grass and yellow dandelions.

And of other things, too. Darker things. Black and twisted things from the distant, shadowed corners of her mind, crawling and staggering out to stand in the light before their appointed time, before the sun had properly set upon her youth and innocence.

More than a child’s nightmare, they seemed a portent, a warning of things to come. She didn’t like them.

Suddenly she was afraid again, and she was also falling. The house was falling, the bed was falling, and she was falling. She fell, she fell, and she fell as she once again clutched the bed with white-knuckled intensity, bracing herself for the inevitable impact. But the impact never came; she just kept falling.

Dorothy Gale awoke with a start. She stifled a scream as she felt her entire body tense up, and finally relax again. She was safe. She’d just been dreaming, dreaming about the cyclone.

But why? Dorothy had all but forgotten about the tornado that had first carried her to Oz so long ago, forgotten what it had even felt like. At least, she thought she had. What her waking mind had forgotten, her dreaming mind seemed to recall quite vividly. Closing her eyes, she could still feel the phantom motions of her bed. She’d been picked up, carried across the Deadly Desert, and set down in the heart of the Munchkin Country without so much as a scratch. Almost as if...

No. It had been nothing more than a freak occurrence. The weather could play odd tricks sometimes, and her arrival in Oz had been one of those. At least, that’s what she’d repeatedly told herself for the past century or so.

It was early. She looked out her window to see that the first glimmers of sunlight had peeked over the horizon, but the sun itself had yet to make its ascent. Once again, she asked herself if the sun that so gently warmed the Land of Oz could really be the same one that had beaten down upon the Kansas plains with such unquenchable, unrelenting fury. She still didn’t have an answer.

She really didn’t want to get up so early, but she was still feeling too uneasy to go back to sleep. After reluctantly crawling out of bed, she shuffled over to her closet. She selected her favorite pair of faded blue jeans, a white and blue checked flannel shirt, and a pair of white canvas lace up shoes. Simple and comfortable, just as she wanted her life to be. Her youth had been one adventure after another, a non-stop series of perilous quests through strange places filled with stranger creatures. One crisis after another, and another after that. Some might have described it as a whirlwind, but Dorothy preferred to leave that sort of clever wordplay to Professor Wogglebug.

She finished dressing and checked herself in the mirror. She was well over a hundred years old. How much over she couldn’t be sure, as she’d long ago lost count. But as she gazed at her reflection, she barely looked twenty, twenty-three at the most. As astonishing as this might have seemed, for the longest time she hadn’t seemed to age at all. However, at some point, perhaps around forty years ago, she’d begun to age slowly, and she didn’t know why. Not that   it really bothered her, as she’d have gladly put her looks up against any woman her age back in Kansas.

Still, there were some niggling concerns in the back of her mind as to why this might be, though she usually managed not to think about it. After the bank foreclosed on the old farm, she’d moved her family to the Land of Oz to dwell in Ozma’s Royal Palace at the heart of the Emerald City. Ozma was the child ruler of the realm for which she’d been named. Ancient beyond measure, but perennially, eternally young, the once believed lost Princess had been restored to her rightful throne in the period between Dorothy’s first and second visits to the Land of Oz. The two had immediately become best friends, and the girl Ruler had even bestowed upon Dorothy the title of Princess. She had been meant to dwell there within the Royal Palace forever, she and Ozma. Never growing up, never growing old.

But after a time, she started to change. Slowly, gradually, and almost imperceptibly, she began to age. Not quite imperceptibly, however, as Ozma had noticed. She’d never said anything, but her manner towards Dorothy had changed. Ozma had never been cold or dismissive towards her. But then, she was never that way towards any of her subjects. She’d just become less open somehow, less trusting. By the time Dorothy made the decision to relinquish her title and leave the Palace, the two had been reduced to merely speaking politely to one another.

Now, she lived alone in a little cottage on Jack Pumpkinhead’s farmland. Uncle Henry and Aunt Em still lived in the Palace, and even Toto had come to feel more at home chatting it up with the rest of the talking animals back in the Emerald City. Yes, Toto had learned   to speak just like the rest of the animals of Oz. Dorothy eventually decided that any dog who can talk back to you isn’t really your dog at all, so she’d been content to let him go his own way. They occasionally visited each other, but not quite so frequently of late.

Dorothy made her way into the kitchen where she proceeded to brew coffee in a tin pot that had been a gift from her friend the Tin Woodman. The Tin Man, or as Dorothy called him, Nick, ruled over the country of the Winkies from his tin castle. Indeed, the Winkie country was home to the finest tinsmiths in all of Oz, and the coffeepot was a fine testament to this fact. It was a positively beautiful piece of work, with its smooth, flowing contours, and ornately etched decorative patterns wrapping all around. She’d scarcely have ever believed something so elegant could be fashioned from simple tin, but Nick’s royal tinsmiths were more than just simple craftsmen, they were artists, and occasionally, their monarch’s team of personal surgeons. 

Dorothy poured the freshly brewed coffee into her mug and sipped as she walked into the den. She stopped to wave her hand in front or a seemingly ordinary gold-framed picture hanging upon the wall, but it was anything but ordinary. The Magic Picture had been a gift from Ozma, once used as a means of keeping in touch while Dorothy was still living back in Kansas. Since she’d moved to Oz, it hadn’t really been needed any longer, so Ozma had just given it to her. Dorothy had learned to use it in a fashion similar to television. At least she believed she had, based on what information she'd gathered about that particular invention.  Of course, she couldn’t be certain, as she’d been long gone from Kansas by the time it had caught on. She was interested to discover that back home the Jayhawks and Wildcats were playing for the Governor’s Cup. She marveled that it had already been a year since last year’s game. Time had so little meaning to her now, and she still hadn’t gotten used to it. The game was as yet scoreless, and still in its first quarter. She resolved to check back later to see how it was unfolding.

She waved her hand and the living image of Bill Snyder Stadium was replaced by a simply painted rural landscape. Stepping out onto her front porch, she leaned her elbows against the wooden railing as she cradled her mug in both hands and sipped. The sun had finally risen over the horizon. Jack’s seemingly boundless grid of pumpkin patches stretched out to that horizon, and beyond. The golden orb of the sun seemed to gaze lovingly down upon Jack’s pumpkins as if they were its children, waiting quietly and patiently to be properly ripened into maturity.

Suddenly, Dorothy knew she was not alone. It wasn’t any of her five physical senses that alerted her to this, but something else. Moreover, she didn’t even have to turn her head and look before intoning, Good morning, Glinda. What brings you here so early?

Trouble, replied the familiar yet long unheard voice of the Good Witch of the South.

And why would you come to me with trouble? Dorothy was still not turning her head. She wanted to keep her resolve, to remain firm in confident in what she was saying. And in order to do that, she could not afford to turn her head. She fought to keep her voice steady. She was not a little girl anymore. She wasn’t exactly a hundred-year-old woman, either, but she was certainly not a little girl. I’m just a simple farm girl, helping old Jack raise his pumpkins. If there is some sort of trouble, I suggest you take it to Ozma.

I have been to Ozma. She sent me here.

By this time a bit exasperated, Dorothy shook her head and retorted, Well, then go back and tell her to send for Nick, or the Scarecrow, or the Wizard. I want no part of any more adventures. No more tornadoes, floods, Nomes, Scoodlers, or flying monkeys. Whatever it is this time, want nothing to do with it. Go and tell her I don’t want to get involved. Tell her to find somebody else.

Even as Dorothy finished speaking