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OCTOBER STORYTIME • MONDAY, OCTOBER 12, 2026 • #312
THE DAY THAT WAS ALREADY WRITTEN
In Thumbumbia, tomorrow has arrived. Unfortunately, someone appears to have been expecting it.
The Scarecrow woke before sunrise.
This was not particularly unusual.
What was unusual was that he had spent most of the night sitting in a chair, watching a mirror that lay face down upon the table.
He had considered turning it over.
Several times.
He had also considered taking it downstairs and handing it to Commander Brine.
But that would have required an explanation.
And the explanation would have sounded rather foolish.
My reflection smiled at me.
The difficulty was not that a reflection had smiled.
Reflections did that.
The difficulty was that the Scarecrow had not.
He had been perfectly still.
Yet the thing in the glass had behaved as though it possessed an intention of its own.
He looked at the mirror again.
It remained face down.
A considerable improvement.
Then the bell rang.
Once.
From the tower across the square.
The Scarecrow rose.
And counted his shadow.
One.
He counted again.
Still one.
Then he went downstairs.
THE MORNING OF OCTOBER TWELFTH
Peg was already at the breakfast table.
His ledger stood open beside a cup of tea.
He had not touched the tea.
That alone concerned the Scarecrow.
“Good morning, Peg.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not particularly.”
The Scarecrow pulled out a chair.
“Something wrong?”
Peg turned his ledger around.
There it was.
The entry that had appeared the previous evening.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 12.
TWO RETURNED. ONE REMAINED.
The date was no longer tomorrow.
It was today.
“I stayed awake until midnight,” Peg said.
“Why?”
“To see whether the entry would change.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you unhappy?”
“Because that means someone knew what day it was going to be.”
The Scarecrow considered this.
“Most calendars manage that.”
Peg looked at him.
Very slowly.
The Scarecrow cleared his throat.
“Yes. I see your point.”
Hatta entered carrying a plate piled with bread.
“Good morning!”
Neither answered.
He inspected their expressions.
Then the ledger.
Then the bread.
“Has something happened?”
“Not yet,” Peg replied.
Hatta stopped.
“How reassuring.”
He sat down.
“Though I confess I dislike the sound of yet before breakfast.”
COMMANDER BRINE ESTABLISHES THE RULES
Commander Brine appeared shortly afterward, accompanied by Boatswain Barnacle.
Neither looked particularly rested.
Brine placed a folded report upon the table.
“We have three matters requiring attention.”
Peg reached for his pencil.
“First,” Brine continued, “the strange light aboard the Evergreen.”
Barnacle nodded.
“Two sailors witnessed it.”
“Did they identify the figure?”
“No.”
“Did they see anyone approach or depart?”
“No.”
“Any sign that a lantern had actually been lit?”
Barnacle hesitated.
“None that we found.”
“Second,” said Brine, “the shadows in the courtyard.”
“Both disappeared,” the Scarecrow reported.
“At what time?”
“I cannot say.”
Peg frowned.
“Unacceptable.”
“Peg,” said Brine.
“From an accounting standpoint.”
“Third,” Brine continued, “the keeper’s promised records.”
Hatta reached for another piece of bread.
“At last! Something old and respectable.”
“That depends,” said Brine, “upon what the records contain.”
He looked around the table.
“Today we do not follow shadows. We do not investigate mysterious lights alone. We do not open unfamiliar doors merely because someone has written an interesting word upon them.”
Hatta slowly lowered his hand.
Brine stared at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why is your hand raised?”
“I was going to inquire about breakfast.”
“You are eating it.”
“Yes, but I thought a formal inquiry might improve the atmosphere.”
Brine ignored him.
“We examine the records. We compare them against what we have witnessed. And we distinguish what is written from what is proven.”
He looked directly at Peg.
“Especially you.”
Peg appeared offended.
“My records are accurate.”
“That,” said Brine, “is what concerns me.”
THE KEEPERS’ ROOM
The old keeper was waiting inside the bell tower.
His basket sat beside the doorway.
The little mirrors within it were wrapped in their usual pieces of cloth.
But today something else occupied the room.
A narrow wooden chest.
Black with age.
Its iron fittings had rusted.
One hinge had been repaired with a strip of brass.
The keeper rested his hand upon the lid.
“My grandfather kept this.”
“Your grandfather?” asked the Scarecrow.
“And his grandfather before him.”
Peg stepped closer.
“Original documents?”
“Some.”
“Copies?”
“Some.”
“Folklore?”
The old man smiled.
“Almost certainly.”
Commander Brine folded his arms.
“Then we begin by separating them.”
The keeper nodded.
“I hoped you would say that.”
He opened the chest.
Inside lay bundles of paper, small notebooks, folded drawings, and several pieces of worn parchment.
Nothing glowed.
Nothing moved.
No mysterious voice spoke from beneath the lid.
Hatta appeared disappointed.
The White Rabbit, however, leaned forward.
“What is that?”
Near the bottom lay a long strip of cloth.
Darkened with age.
Marked with three black shapes.
Not letters.
Not drawings of faces.
Shadows.
Three of them.
Standing side by side.
THREE SHADOWS. TWO RECORDS.
The keeper carefully spread the cloth upon the table.
Its figures were crude.
Two tall.
One shorter.
Each had been painted in a dark substance that had faded toward brown.
Beneath the first shape was a mark.
A simple circle.
Beneath the second, another.
But beneath the third...
nothing.
Peg moved closer.
“Why is the third one blank?”
The keeper shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Who made this?”
“We don’t know that either.”
“How old?”
“Older than our present records.”
Peg took a breath.
The kind of breath people take before becoming professionally unpleasant.
Commander Brine intervened.
“Can you establish where it was found?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“According to my grandfather’s notes, it was recovered from the old road.”
Hatta looked up.
“The road into the forest?”
The keeper nodded.
“The same road.”
Silence settled over the room.
Beyond the window, Thumbumbia was beginning an ordinary Monday morning.
Carts rattled.
Shopkeepers opened shutters.
Someone called to a child.
The familiar sounds made the cloth upon the table seem stranger.
The Scarecrow studied the three marks.
“Did these belong to the traveler you told us about?”
“Perhaps.”
“Is there evidence?”
“Not enough.”
Brine nodded approvingly.
“Then we leave it there.”
Peg was already copying the marks.
“Two circles and one blank.”
Hatta peered over his shoulder.
“Perhaps the third shadow neglected to register.”
Peg looked deeply wounded.
“That is not amusing.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
“Then what was it?”
“An observation.”
“An irresponsible observation.”
Hatta smiled.
“Those are my specialty.”
THE RECORD THAT DISAGREED WITH ITSELF
The keeper retrieved a small notebook.
Its cover had nearly separated from the binding.
He opened it carefully.
“Here is the earliest written account we possess.”
The Scarecrow leaned forward.
The handwriting was cramped and uneven.
Some words had faded.
Others had been repaired by a later hand.
The keeper read aloud.
“Three shadows were seen near the east road after sunset.”
He paused.
“Two departed before morning.”
Another pause.
“One remained.”
Peg’s pencil stopped.
Those words.
The very words in his ledger.
Not precisely the whole sentence.
But close enough.
The keeper continued.
“The remaining shadow was observed for several days.”
“How many?” asked Brine.
“The number is illegible.”
“Go on.”
“The shadow disappeared upon the arrival of a traveler whose name...”
The keeper stopped.
“Whose name what?” asked the Scarecrow.
The old man turned the notebook toward them.
There was a blank space.
Not a missing page.
Not torn paper.
A line carefully scratched away until the surface had become thin.
Someone had deliberately removed the name.
Brine examined it.
“Can it be recovered?”
“Perhaps with the right methods.”
Peg leaned in.
“Then we should try.”
“Eventually,” Brine replied. “First, we document the condition in which we found it.”
The keeper turned another page.
And frowned.
“What?” asked Hatta.
The old man said nothing.
He turned the page back.
Then forward again.
“There are two accounts.”
“Of the same event?” asked the Scarecrow.
“Apparently.”
“And?”
The keeper looked at Brine.
“They disagree.”
“About what?”
“The order.”
He read the second account.
“One shadow remained near the old road until a traveler departed from Thumbumbia.”
The Scarecrow considered the sentence.
“That doesn’t sound very different.”
“Read the next line,” said the keeper.
Brine bent over the page.
The second line was brief.
THE TRAVELER ARRIVED THE FOLLOWING DAY.
Nobody spoke.
Finally Hatta said:
“I beg your pardon?”
“The traveler arrived,” repeated the keeper, “after the record says he departed.”
Peg shut his eyes.
This was the first time the Scarecrow had ever seen an accounting contradiction cause a man physical distress.
SOMEBODY HAD ALTERED THE RECORD
Commander Brine did not immediately accept the mystery.
He examined both passages.
The ink.
The paper.
The script.
The erased name.
Then he looked at the keeper.
“These accounts are not necessarily contemporary.”
“No.”
“One may have been copied incorrectly.”
“Yes.”
“Dates may have been confused.”
“Certainly.”
“Or someone may have deliberately altered the account.”
The keeper did not answer.
Brine looked toward the window.
“Then we have several ordinary explanations before considering extraordinary ones.”
Professor Parallax, had he been present, would have approved.
The Scarecrow approved anyway.
Yet he kept looking at the scratched-out name.
The other letters had survived.
Dates.
Places.
Descriptions.
Even the number of shadows.
But someone had taken considerable trouble to remove one person’s identity.
Not merely from the tower stone.
From this notebook too.
“Why?” the Scarecrow asked quietly.
“Why erase the traveler but preserve the shadow?”
The keeper slowly closed the book.
“I have been asking that question all my life.”
THE ONE WHO WAS NOT COUNTED
By midday, the party returned to the inn.
Barnacle had received another report from the Evergreen.
This time, the watch officer had done precisely what Commander Brine ordered.
He had counted everyone aboard.
Compared the count with the muster roll.
Checked the boats.
Checked the cabins.
Checked the galley and cargo spaces.
Every sailor was accounted for.
Every officer.
Every passenger.
Nobody was missing.
Nobody extra had been found.
“Excellent,” said Hatta.
“Not quite,” Barnacle replied.
The Commander looked up.
“What now?”
“The watch officer made one additional observation.”
“What observation?”
“He inspected the lantern near the stern.”
“The one associated with last night’s figure?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“There is no evidence that it was lit.”
“Then perhaps the witnesses saw another light.”
“Perhaps.”
Barnacle looked uncomfortable.
“But both witnesses insist that the figure was standing beside that lantern.”
Brine waited.
“And?”
“Both also insist he cast no shadow.”
The White Rabbit stopped winding his watch.
Peg opened his ledger.
And the Scarecrow remembered his mirror.
Not the shadows in the courtyard.
Not the writing upon its frame.
The smile.
Something in the glass had moved without him.
Something had answered his presence without behaving as it should.
He kept the thought to himself.
For the moment.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO COUNT SOMEONE?
That afternoon, the Scarecrow walked through Thumbumbia with the White Rabbit.
They did not follow the old road.
They did not approach the forest.
They remained within sight of the inn and its market square.
Children were playing near the fountain.
A baker was carrying loaves from his ovens.
Two women argued cheerfully over the price of vegetables.
There was something reassuring about ordinary life continuing around a mystery.
The Rabbit walked beside him.
“Are you thinking about the ledger?”
“Yes.”
“Two returned. One remained.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think it means the shadows?”
“I don’t know.”
“People?”
“I don’t know.”
“Something else?”
“Possibly.”
The Rabbit sighed.
“You are not being particularly helpful.”
“I am trying not to invent answers.”
“How inconvenient.”
They reached the fountain.
The Scarecrow stopped.
Across the square stood the bell tower.
The keeper was closing its door.
Beside him waited a small boy with a basket.
The old man gave the child something.
The boy nodded and ran toward the market.
The Scarecrow watched him disappear into the crowd.
Then he said:
“Rabbit?”
“Yes?”
“Suppose we counted everyone in this square.”
“Why?”
“To make certain nobody was missing.”
“A sensible precaution.”
“And suppose everyone was present.”
“Then nobody would be missing.”
“But would that tell us whether someone else was expected?”
The Rabbit lowered his watch.
For once, he did not immediately answer.
The Scarecrow continued.
“We keep asking whether a shadow has lost its owner.”
“Yes.”
“But the keeper’s stories describe shadows waiting for people who haven’t arrived.”
The Rabbit looked back toward the tower.
“Then perhaps...”
He stopped.
“Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps we have been counting the wrong thing.”
THE SECOND COUNT
Peg insisted upon conducting the count personally.
This was inevitable.
Commander Brine authorized a limited inquiry.
No wandering.
No speculation presented as fact.
No questioning every stranger in Thumbumbia.
The keeper would help establish how many people were expected to be lodging at the inn.
Peg would compare the available names against those actually present.
The Rabbit would assist.
Hatta offered to supervise.
Brine refused.
Hatta offered to supervise the refusal.
Brine refused that too.
By late afternoon, Peg had completed his work.
“Everyone accounted for,” he announced.
“Then we have learned something,” said Brine.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Nobody is missing from the inn.”
Hatta raised one finger.
“Unless someone has been forgotten.”
Peg stared.
“That is why we keep records.”
“Exactly.”
“Then what is your objection?”
“That we might have forgotten to record somebody.”
Peg closed the ledger.
“Commander, may I throw him into the fountain?”
“No.”
“Thank you,” said Hatta.
“I was speaking to Peg.”
“Oh.”
But the Scarecrow was no longer listening.
He was looking at the ledger.
Two returned.
One remained.
He had assumed the sentence described something that would happen.
But now another possibility occurred to him.
What if it described something that had already happened, and only the date was wrong?
Or worse...
what if the date was perfectly correct, but the words referred to an event they had not yet recognized?
He did not say so.
Not yet.
THE KEEPER’S FINAL PAGE
Near sunset, the old keeper arrived at the inn.
He carried no basket.
Only a single folded sheet.
“I found something,” he told Brine.
“Another story?”
“No.”
“Another copy?”
“Possibly.”
Brine gestured toward the table.
The keeper unfolded the sheet.
It was a rubbing taken from the old stone whose inscription had been chiseled away.
Much of it was illegible.
The keeper explained that the rubbing had been made decades earlier, before the surface had deteriorated further.
Peg examined it through a magnifying glass.
The missing name remained unreadable.
But the lower edge contained something nobody had noticed in the notebook.
Three short lines.
Not a narrative.
Instructions.
The keeper read the first.
WHEN THE FIRST RETURNS, DO NOT FOLLOW.
The second:
WHEN THE SECOND RETURNS, DO NOT OPEN.
The third had been damaged.
Only five words remained.
WHEN THE THIRD RETURNS... COUNT...
The rest was gone.
Nobody moved.
Hatta finally broke the silence.
“Well.”
Brine looked at him.
“Do not say perhaps.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
“I was going to say this has become thoroughly unpleasant.”
Nobody disagreed.
THE COMMANDER’S DECISION
Commander Brine folded the rubbing.
Then looked at the Scarecrow.
“Do you still have the mirror?”
“Yes.”
“Bring it here.”
The Scarecrow hesitated.
“Commander...”
“Something wrong?”
He could have said no.
He very nearly did.
Instead he told them.
About the night before.
About raising his hand.
About his reflection following every movement.
About the moment when the reflection smiled.
And he did not.
Hatta’s expression changed.
The White Rabbit put his watch into his pocket.
Peg wrote nothing.
Commander Brine listened without interruption.
When the Scarecrow finished, the room was silent.
Then Brine asked one question.
“Did you witness anything else?”
“No.”
“Did you move?”
“No.”
“Did the reflection move again?”
“The smile disappeared.”
“Could the light have caused an illusion?”
“Possibly.”
“Could you have been mistaken?”
“Yes.”
Brine nodded.
“Then we examine the mirror under controlled conditions.”
Hatta brightened.
“At last, a sensible experiment.”
“Tomorrow morning,” Brine added.
Hatta dimmed.
“Why tomorrow?”
“Because it is getting dark.”
“And?”
“And I have developed a strong preference for investigating unusual shadows when there is sufficient light to see them.”
That settled the matter.
Almost.
MONDAY NIGHT IN THUMBUMBIA
The four ships remain at anchor.
The Evergreen lies closest to shore.
The Hare and Lionheart hold their stations beyond her.
The Swallow keeps watch farther out.
No departure has been ordered.
No expedition toward Burzee has been authorized.
The keeper’s records have been examined.
Their authenticity and meaning remain uncertain.
The erased name has not been recovered.
The report of a shadowless figure aboard the Evergreen remains unresolved.
Peg’s impossible entry is still there.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 12.
TWO RETURNED. ONE REMAINED.
And today’s date has reached its final hours without anyone establishing what the words mean.
Commander Brine has ordered the mirror secured until morning.
Barnacle has doubled the watch.
Peg has copied every surviving inscription.
The White Rabbit has checked his watch against the clock in the inn.
For the first time since arriving in Thumbumbia, both agree.
Hatta has suggested that this is suspicious.
Nobody has encouraged him.
And the Scarecrow...
has done something very simple.
He has counted everyone at supper.
Once.
Then again.
Everyone is present.
Nobody is missing.
Nobody appears to have arrived unexpectedly.
And for a little while, the Scarecrow feels better.
BUT BEFORE THE LANTERN GOES OUT
The mirror has been placed inside a locked wooden cabinet in Commander Brine’s room.
The key remains in the Commander’s pocket.
A sensible arrangement.
At half past eleven, Barnacle walks past the room.
He hears nothing.
At a quarter to midnight, Peg passes along the corridor.
He hears nothing.
At five minutes before midnight, the Scarecrow comes upstairs.
He pauses outside Brine’s door.
The corridor is empty.
The lamps are burning steadily.
Everything appears normal.
He starts toward his room.
Then stops.
At the far end of the corridor, someone is standing beside the window.
A small figure.
Motionless.
The Scarecrow cannot distinguish the face.
“Who is there?”
No answer.
He takes one step closer.
The figure does not move.
Another step.
Then moonlight passes through the window.
And illuminates the floor.
The Scarecrow looks down.
There is a shadow beneath his feet.
His own.
He looks toward the figure.
There is no shadow beneath it.
Then the figure slowly raises one hand.
Not in greeting.
Not in warning.
It points toward Commander Brine’s door.
And from behind that locked door...
three small taps answer.
The Scarecrow does not move.
The figure lowers its hand.
And disappears into the darkness.
No footsteps.
No opening door.
Nothing.
Only the quiet corridor.
The Scarecrow reaches Brine’s room.
Raises his hand to knock.
And pauses.
Because something has been written upon the door.
Not in ink.
Not in chalk.
Three words.
Small.
Almost invisible.
COUNT US AGAIN.
OCTOBER STORYTIME
Yesterday, the Scarecrow’s reflection smiled without him.
Today, the keeper’s oldest records revealed three instructions whose meaning remains uncertain.
And tonight, the counting has acquired a new complication.
The records say:
TWO RETURNED. ONE REMAINED.
The mirror said:
COUNT THEM AGAIN.
But the door now says something different.
COUNT US AGAIN.
Somewhere in Thumbumbia, an old mystery is beginning to speak in the plural.
And the Flotilla has not yet determined who is speaking.
Or how many.
Tomorrow...
THE COUNT MAY FINALLY ANSWER BACK.
💚🟨🏮🌳⛵⛵⛵⛵♾️
Yellow Brick Road to AI • Monday, October 12, 2026 • #312
An original OZ~QZ October Storytime continuation inspired by L. Frank Baum’s inherited Thumbumbia and runaway-shadow tradition. The keeper, records, mystery, and present-day adventures are additions to our OZ~QZ storytelling.
The four ships remain offshore. The road to Burzee remains unopened.
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