There were four of them. She could see a huge Cat of some sort — a Lion, was it? — and a shiny woodman. The Tin Woodman was picking nits out of the Lion’s mane, and the Lion was muttering, and squirming from the aggravation. An animated Scarecrow lolled nearby, blowing dandelion heads into the wind. The girl was out of sight, behind shifting curtains of the willow.


“Of course, to hear them tell it, it is the surviving sister who is the crazy one,” said the Lion. “What a Witch. Psychologically warped; possessed by demons. Insane. Not a pretty picture.”


“She was castrated at birth,” replied the Tin Woodman calmly. “She was born hermaphroditic, or maybe entirely male.”


“Oh you, you see castration everywhere you look,” said the Lion.


“I’m only repeating what folks say,” said the Tin Woodman.


“Everyone is entitled to an opinion,” said the Lion airily. “She was deprived of a mother’s love, is how I’ve heard it. She was an abused child. She was addicted to medicine for her skin condition.”


“She has been unlucky in love,” said the Tin Woodman, “like the rest of us.” The Tin Woodman paused and placed his hand on the center of his chest, as if in grief.


“She’s a woman who prefers the company of other women,” said the Scarecrow, sitting up.


“She’s the spurned lover of a married man.”


“She is a married man.


The Witch was so stunned that she nearly lost her grip on the branch. The last thing she cared for was gossip. Yet she had been out of touch for so long that she was astonished at the vigorous opinions of these random nobodies.


“She’s a despot. A dangerous tyrant,” said the Lion with conviction.


The Tin Woodman pulled harder than was necessary on a lock of mane. “Everything’s dangerous to you, you craven thing. I hear she’s a champion of home rule for the so-called Winkies.”


“Whoever she is, she must surely be grieving the death of her sister,” said the child, in a somber voice too rich, too sincere for one so young. The Witch’s skin crawled.


“Don’t go feeling sympathetic now. I certainly can’t.” The Tin Woodman sniffed, a bit cynically.


“But Dorothy’s right,” said the Scarecrow. “No one is exempt from grief.”