An Elephant goddess, Elphie thought, her mind recoiling in terror and delight, but the Princess Nastoya said, “No.” She spoke through the rafiqi still; he had obviously seen this before, though with the alcohol he stuttered and had to search for words.
One by one she asked the intentions of the travelers.
“Money and commerce,” said Pinchweed, shocked into honesty: money and commerce and pillage and plunder at whatever cost.
“A place to die where I can rest, and my spirit go abroad,” ventured Igo.
“Safety and movement, out of harm’s way,” said Oatsie spunkily, by which it was clear she meant: out of men’s way.
The rafiqi indicated that Elphie’s own answer was still needed.
In the presence of such an Animal, Elphie could not stay aloof. So she spoke it as best as she could. “To retire from the world after making sure of the safety of the survivors of my lover. To face his widow, Sarima, in guilt and responsibility, and then to remove myself from the darkening world.”
The Elephant told the others, except the rafiqi, to leave.
The Elephant raised her trunk and sniffed the wind. Her rheumy old eyes blinked slowly and her ears moved back and forth, raking the air for nuance. She pissed hugely in a steaming flow, with dignity and nonchalance, eyes firmly latched on Elphaba.
Through the rafiqi, the Elephant then said, “Daughter of the dragon, I too am under a spell. I know how it may be broken—but I choose to live as a changeling. An Elephant is a hunted thing in these times. The Scrow approve of me. They have worshipped elephants from the time before language, the time before history began. They know I am not a goddess. They know I am a beast who chooses magical incarceration as a human over the dangerous liberty of my own powerful form.
“When the times are a crucible, when the air is full of crisis,” she said, “those who are the most themselves are the victims.”
Elphie could only look, she could not speak.
“But the choice to save yourself can itself be deadly,” said the Princess Nastoya.
Elphie nodded, looked away, looked back.
“I will give you three crows as your familiars,” said the Princess. “You are in hiding as a witch now. That is your guise.” She spoke a word to the crows, and three mangy, evil-looking things came and waited nearby.
“A witch?” Elphaba said. What her father would think! “Hiding from what?”
“We have the same enemy,” replied the Princess. “We are both at risk. If you need help send the crows. If I am still alive, as an old matriarch monarch, or as a free Elephant, I’ll come to your aid.”
“Why?” asked Elphie.
“Because no retreat from the world can mask what is in your face,” she answered.
The Princess said more. It had been years—more than a decade—since Elphie had been able to talk to an Animal. Who, Elphie asked the Princess, had enchanted her? But the Princess Nastoya wouldn’t say—in part as self-protection, for the death of the enchanter could sometimes mean the revocation of binding spells, and her curse was her safety.
“But is life worth living in the wrong form?” said Elphie.
“The interior doesn’t change,” she answered, “except by self-involvement. Of which be not afraid, and also beware.”
“I have no interior,” said Elphaba.
“Something told those bees to kill the cook,” said the Princess Nastoya, with a glitter in her eye. Elphaba felt herself go pale.
“I didn’t!” she said. “No, it couldn’t have been me! And how did you know?”
“You did, on some level. You are a strong woman. And I can hear bees, you know. My ears are keen.”
“I would like to stay here with you,” said Elphaba. “Life has been very hard. If you can hear me when I cannot hear myself—something the Superior Maunt could never do—you could help me do no harm in this world. That’s all I want—to do no harm.”
“By your own admission, you have a job to do,” said the Princess. She curled her trunk around Elphaba’s face, feeling its contours and truths. “Go and do it.”
“May I return to you?” asked Elphie.
But the Princess wouldn’t answer. She was tiring—she was an old old thing even for an Elephant. Her trunk went back and forth like a pendulum on a clock. Then the great nose-hand came forward and set itself with wonderful weight and precision on Elphaba’s shoulders, and curled a bit around her neck. “Listen to me, sister,” she said. “Remember this: Nothing is written in the stars. Not these stars, nor any others. No one controls your destiny.”
