💚🟨 YELLOW BRICK ROAD TO AI
OCTOBER STORYTIME • SUNDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2026 • #310
THE SHADOW THAT BELONGED TO TOMORROW
In Thumbumbia, counting is easy. Knowing what you have counted is another matter.
The Scarecrow counted them again.
One.
That was all.
One perfectly ordinary shadow stretching across the floor beside his bed.
He raised the little round mirror.
The three words were still there.
COUNT THEM AGAIN.
He examined the frame.
The writing was old.
Perhaps much older than the mirror’s latest owner.
He tilted the glass toward the lantern.
His reflection tilted with it.
His hat sat crookedly upon his head.
He straightened it.
The reflection did likewise.
Nothing unusual.
Then he lowered the mirror.
And heard a knock.
Not at the door.
At the window.
Three small taps.
He turned.
Nothing stood outside.
The window overlooked a narrow courtyard.
Moonlight lay across its paving stones.
And in the moonlight...
there were two shadows.
Neither belonged to anything he could see.
THE SCARECROW MAKES A DECISION
Commander Brine had given explicit orders.
Nobody was to investigate alone.
Nobody was to follow a wandering shadow.
Nobody was to touch anything unusual without reporting it.
And nobody, under any circumstances, was to wake him merely because Hatta had discovered something interesting.
The Scarecrow considered all four instructions.
Then went to fetch Commander Brine.
He had barely reached the corridor when Hatta emerged from the adjoining room.
Wearing his hat.
Naturally.
“Something wrong?”
“Possibly.”
“Excellent.”
“Why excellent?”
“Because I have been awake for an hour wondering why nothing has happened.”
“Something has happened.”
Hatta straightened.
“To whom?”
“That remains to be established.”
The Scarecrow showed him the mirror.
Hatta read the writing.
Then looked at the Scarecrow.
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Counted them again.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“One shadow in the room.”
“Good.”
“Two in the courtyard.”
Hatta stopped smiling.
“Less good.”
They stood together for a moment.
Then Hatta said:
“Commander Brine?”
“Commander Brine.”
For once, they agreed without argument.
THE COURTYARD
Barnacle arrived first.
He carried a lantern and wore the expression of a man who had expected trouble but objected to its timing.
Commander Brine followed.
Peg appeared behind him.
Nobody had summoned Peg.
Nobody had needed to.
Somehow, the possibility of an unrecorded occurrence had reached him through the walls.
The White Rabbit arrived last.
He had brought his watch.
Brine looked around.
“Nobody goes outside until we know what we’re looking at.”
They gathered at the Scarecrow’s window.
Moonlight covered the courtyard.
A rain barrel stood against one wall.
There was a small tree near the gate.
A stone bench beneath it.
And nothing else.
The Scarecrow pointed.
“There.”
Peg leaned forward.
“Where?”
“Beside the bench.”
Peg squinted.
“I see the tree’s shadow.”
“Look beyond it.”
Silence.
Then:
“Two,” Peg whispered.
Two narrow shadows lay upon the stones.
They were almost identical.
Long.
Human-shaped.
Side by side.
Yet neither was attached to any visible body.
Barnacle raised the lantern.
The shadows did not change.
He lowered it.
Still nothing.
Brine stepped away from the window.
“Everyone remain inside.”
Hatta nodded.
“An excellent suggestion.”
Then he added:
“Are we counting people or shadows?”
Peg looked offended.
“Both, obviously.”
THE FIRST ONE MOVED
It happened slowly.
One of the two shadows began stretching toward the courtyard gate.
No footsteps.
No sound.
No creature to cast it.
It moved across the paving stones, reached the gate, and stopped.
The second remained beneath the window.
The Scarecrow watched closely.
Then he noticed something strange.
The shadow at the gate was not facing away.
It was facing toward them.
He could not explain how he knew.
A shadow has no eyes.
No expression.
No proper face.
Yet the shape appeared to be waiting for someone.
Brine spoke quietly.
“Nobody opens that gate.”
Nobody moved.
Then the White Rabbit checked his watch.
He checked it again.
And again.
Hatta noticed.
“What is wrong?”
The Rabbit frowned.
“My watch.”
“Has it stopped?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“It is running.”
“Most watches do.”
“Backward.”
That silenced everyone.
PEG’S IMPOSSIBLE RECORD
Peg opened his ledger.
He had copied yesterday’s events with extraordinary care.
Six wandering shadows in the square.
A seventh beneath the bell tower.
One inscription:
YESTERDAY.
Then the word that had appeared above it:
RETURN.
All properly dated.
All witnessed.
All recorded.
Even Commander Brine had approved the account.
Now Peg began another entry.
Two ownerless shadows in the courtyard.
One moving.
One stationary.
The White Rabbit’s watch apparently running backward.
Peg wrote for perhaps thirty seconds.
Then stopped.
He stared at the page.
Turned it.
Turned back.
And frowned.
“Commander.”
Brine did not look away from the window.
“What?”
“Someone has made an entry.”
“Then check who signed it.”
“There is no signature.”
“Whose ledger?”
“Mine.”
“Then you probably wrote it.”
“No.”
“Peg.”
“Commander, I assure you.”
Brine turned.
Peg held out the book.
On the next page was an entry nobody remembered seeing before.
The handwriting resembled Peg’s.
Precisely.
The date was clearly written.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 12.
Tomorrow.
And beneath it:
TWO RETURNED. ONE REMAINED.
WHAT DOES TOMORROW KNOW?
The Scarecrow read the entry twice.
Then looked at Peg.
“Could you have written this earlier?”
“Not unless I wrote tomorrow’s date by mistake.”
“Have you ever done that?”
“Once.”
Everyone stared.
Peg cleared his throat.
“I corrected it.”
Brine took the ledger.
He inspected the ink.
The writing.
The page.
The binding.
Nothing appeared altered.
Hatta leaned over his shoulder.
“Perhaps someone is playing a trick.”
“Perhaps,” Brine answered.
“Perhaps Thumbumbia keeps its own accounts.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps the shadows are borrowing Peg’s handwriting.”
Brine closed the ledger.
“That is enough perhaps for one evening.”
But the Scarecrow was thinking.
Yesterday, the tower wall had acquired the word RETURN.
Tonight, Peg’s ledger contained a record of events that apparently had not yet occurred.
And the Rabbit’s watch had begun moving backward.
Three mysteries.
Or one mystery wearing three different disguises.
He looked toward the window.
One shadow still waited beneath it.
The other had disappeared through the courtyard gate.
He said quietly:
“What if that isn’t a record of tomorrow?”
Peg looked up.
“What else could it be?”
“A warning.”
THE OLD MAN ARRIVES
They heard footsteps on the stairs.
Slow.
Measured.
Then three knocks upon the door.
Commander Brine opened it.
The old keeper of the bell tower stood outside.
He carried his familiar basket.
Inside lay several little mirrors.
All wrapped in cloth.
He looked at the assembled travelers.
Then at the Scarecrow.
“You found the writing.”
The Scarecrow held up the mirror.
“Yes.”
The old man nodded.
“Then the counting has begun.”
Brine folded his arms.
“What counting?”
The old man glanced toward the window.
“How many have returned.”
“Returned from where?”
“That is what we have never established.”
Peg stepped forward.
“Then why count them?”
“Because sometimes they arrive before we know what is missing.”
The Scarecrow remembered something.
Yesterday, the seventh shadow had come to the wall.
The word RETURN had appeared.
Then the shadow had disappeared.
“Has this happened before?”
The old man looked at him.
“Not exactly.”
“Then something similar?”
“Once.”
“When?”
The keeper lowered his basket.
“A very long time ago.”
“How long?”
He hesitated.
“Before my grandfather was born.”
“And what happened?”
The old man looked toward the darkness beyond the window.
“Three shadows appeared one evening.”
“Did they have owners?”
“Not that anyone could find.”
“Did they leave?”
“Two did.”
“And the third?”
The old man looked directly at Peg.
“It stayed.”
Nobody spoke.
Then Hatta asked:
“For how long?”
The old man’s reply was barely audible.
“Until the person who belonged to it arrived.”
THE NAME THAT HAD BEEN ERASED
The story had survived in fragments.
The keeper’s grandfather had inherited it from his own grandfather.
Three shadows appeared.
Two vanished before morning.
The third remained.
People attempted to drive it away.
It returned.
They covered the windows.
It appeared beneath the doors.
They extinguished the lamps.
It waited in the moonlight.
Eventually, a traveler came to Thumbumbia.
The traveler recognized the shadow.
Or perhaps the shadow recognized the traveler.
The records differed.
The old man admitted that much.
“What happened afterward?” asked the Scarecrow.
“The shadow went with him.”
“And the traveler?”
“He left.”
“By the old road?”
The keeper nodded.
“Toward the forest?”
Another nod.
No one said Burzee.
They had agreed not to spend that door before reaching it.
But the Scarecrow could feel the road waiting beyond the trees.
Then Peg asked:
“Was the traveler’s name recorded?”
The keeper hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Then we can look it up.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because someone removed it.”
“From the ledger?”
“From the stone.”
Now Commander Brine became interested.
“Removed how?”
“Chiseled away.”
“By whom?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Why?”
The keeper looked at the Scarecrow.
“Perhaps because the traveler had not yet been born when the record was written.”
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A STORY AND A FACT
That last statement deserved examination.
The Scarecrow knew it.
So did Commander Brine.
A story handed down through generations can change.
Details disappear.
New explanations accumulate.
Fear improves the dramatic portions.
Memory rearranges the rest.
And Thumbumbia had spent generations learning to live with stories about shadows.
But a story was not necessarily evidence.
Commander Brine spoke carefully.
“Do you have the original record?”
“No.”
“Any written account from the time?”
“Fragments.”
“Can we inspect them?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow?”
The keeper nodded.
“If tomorrow arrives as expected.”
Hatta looked at the White Rabbit.
The Rabbit looked at his watch.
Then discreetly put it away.
Brine continued.
“Then we shall examine the records tomorrow. Until then, we know what we have witnessed. Nothing more.”
The Scarecrow agreed.
He had traveled too far through strange lands to mistake every marvelous explanation for the truth.
The shadows were real enough to see.
Their meaning remained unknown.
And tomorrow’s ledger entry?
That was a puzzle.
Not a prophecy.
Not yet.
BACK TO THE EVERGREEN
Near midnight, Brine sent Barnacle to the shore.
Not alone.
Two sailors accompanied him.
Their orders were simple.
Check the landing boats.
Signal the four ships.
Report any unusual movement along the beach.
Do not pursue anything inland.
The Evergreen lay nearest the shore.
Beyond her, the Hare and Lionheart rested upon the dark water.
The Swallow held her station farther out.
Four ships.
Four separate watches.
No order to sail.
No permission to enter the forbidden road.
Their journey toward Burzee remained exactly where it had been.
Ahead.
Commander Brine had no intention of allowing a mysterious ledger to change his orders.
Not without evidence.
Barnacle returned shortly after midnight.
Everything was in order.
Almost.
He reported one curiosity.
There had been a light aboard the Evergreen.
Near the stern.
A lantern.
Visible for only a few moments.
Then gone.
“Who was on watch?” Brine asked.
“Two sailors.”
“Did they light it?”
“No.”
“Did they see anyone?”
“No.”
“Then what did they see?”
Barnacle paused.
“A figure standing beside the lantern.”
“Who?”
“Couldn’t identify him.”
“Why not?”
“Because...”
Barnacle stopped.
The Commander waited.
“Because he had no shadow.”
THE LAST MIRROR
The Scarecrow returned to his room.
He had no intention of sleeping immediately.
The little mirror lay on the table.
He examined its frame again.
Three words:
COUNT THEM AGAIN.
He placed it beside the lamp.
Then looked down.
His shadow lay across the floor.
One.
He raised his hand.
The shadow raised its hand.
He turned.
The shadow turned.
Perfectly ordinary.
Then he remembered Peg’s ledger.
TWO RETURNED. ONE REMAINED.
He returned to the window.
The courtyard was empty.
Both wandering shadows had disappeared.
The moon had moved behind the rooftops.
Nothing remained but stone, tree, bench, and silence.
He drew the curtains.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
And looked once more into the mirror.
His reflection gazed back.
He lifted his hand.
The reflection lifted its hand.
He lowered it.
The reflection lowered its hand.
Then...
without moving...
the reflection smiled.
The Scarecrow did not.
He held perfectly still.
The smile vanished.
And from somewhere very far away...
a bell rang.
Once.
SUNDAY NIGHT IN THUMBUMBIA
The Flotilla remains offshore.
No departure has been ordered.
No expedition toward Burzee has been authorized.
The keeper has promised access to the oldest surviving shadow records.
Peg has secured his ledger.
Commander Brine has ordered an additional watch aboard the Evergreen.
Hatta has announced that tomorrow he intends to sleep late.
The White Rabbit has forbidden anyone from touching his watch.
And the Scarecrow has placed the little round mirror face down upon the table.
Not because he fears what might appear inside it.
But because, for the first time since arriving in Thumbumbia...
he is no longer certain which side of the glass is doing the looking.
OCTOBER STORYTIME
Yesterday, a shadow returned.
Tonight, the records appear to know tomorrow.
And in a little room in Thumbumbia, a mirror has begun behaving as though it remembers someone else.
The old road remains closed.
The ships remain at anchor.
The questions remain unanswered.
But one thing has changed.
For three days, the travelers have been counting shadows.
Tomorrow...
THEY MAY HAVE TO BEGIN COUNTING PEOPLE.
💚🟨🏮🌳⛵⛵⛵⛵♾️
Yellow Brick Road to AI • Sunday, October 11, 2026
An original OZ~QZ October Storytime continuation, inspired by the inherited Thumbumbia and runaway-shadow tradition of L. Frank Baum.
The road to Burzee remains unopened.
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Exploring the road between humanity and artificial intelligence.
Q~ & Scarecrow of OZ~QZ 🌈♾️👈 🏮
