by Cameron Jace
“And I repeat”—his smile broadened, too wide to be benevolent—“a deadly virus like nothing you’ve seen before. It should start working in a few hours. Within three days,”—the automobile hovered above the ground—“this world as you know it will end.”
What once was silence escalated to ascending grunts of panic. More children kept coughing. Parents worried, watching him escape into the sky. More people in the world couldn’t believe what they were watching on the news.
“Who are you?” a reporter screamed at the floating priest.
“I told you. My name is Lewis Carroll,” he said from high above, looking like someone sweet and colorful in the middle of a never-ending nightmare. “And I am a Wonderland Monster.
1
ST PETER’S BASILICA, THE VATICAN
I am waiting in line to enter the confession room so I can talk to Fabiola.
Tens of men and women entered the booth before me, most of them slouched by the weight of whatever truth, or sins, they were about to confess.
But knowing Fabiola—from the few times we’ve met—I’m aware of her positive influence on people.
Until it’s my turn, I fiddle with the key Lewis Carroll gave me three weeks ago when I first met him through the Tom Tower.
I pulled it out of my cell’s wall this morning, fearing it wasn’t safe in there anymore. Not after I stupidly lost another key to the Mad Hatter last week. I messed up. Who knows what this Hatter would do with it.
But this golden key in my hand—Lewis instructed me not to lose it under any circumstances. I plan not to disappoint him.
I’m looking forward to knowing why it’s so important, along with the date scribbled on the walls of my cell in the asylum: January the 14th.
I wonder what happened on that day. If I could only remember why I wrote it on the wall—and if it was me who did it.
An old lady pats me on my shoulder, informing me that it’s my turn.
I stand up, take a deep breath, and enter the booth, waiting for Fabiola to slide open the window in between.
In the dark and silence of the booth, I’m reminded of Jack. Silly Jack, who would never give up on me.
Silly Jack, who may be only a figment of my imagination. A figment so nice I can’t risk finding out he’s not real.
“Are you here for a confession, Alice?” Fabiola asks behind the closed window. I wonder if the White Queen can see through walls.
“No,” I say. “How can I confess what I don’t remember?”
“Trust me.” I hear her fingernails on the wooden frame. “It’s a lot easier than trying to confess what you actually remember.”
I lower my gaze and fiddle with the key, assuming Fabiola’s heard humanity’s darkest secrets between these walls.
“The Pillar lent you his plane to come and see me?” she says.
“Yes. But he doesn’t know what I want to see you about.”
“And what do you want to see me about?”
“Did you hear about me entering a delirious version of Wonderland through the Garden of Cosmic Speculation last week?”
“I did,” Fabiola says. “I too, had a vision that I met you inside and showed you the Impossible Six.”
“Lewis, you, the March Hare, Jack, me, and a little girl.”
“If you’re here to ask me about the little girl, I have no answer for you... at least not now.”
“I admit I am curious, but it’s not what I’m here for.”
“Why are you here then, Alice?” Fabiola sounds impatient. I get the feeling she is afraid that talking to me for longer periods will force her to confess too much to me.
The irony.
“I think what I saw was some kind of epiphany, a sign for me to do something,” I say. “I want to gather the Impossible Six and create an opposing force against Black Chess.”
Fabiola slides open the window.
2
“You want to stand up to the Queen of Hearts and Black Chess?” Fabiola’s eyes show concern.
“I don’t want to wait for the monster of the week anymore,” I say. “I know about the Circus. How it all started. Black Chess has to be stopped.”
“You know nothing at all, believe me. But it’s admirable that, although you’re not sure if you’re the Real Alice, you want to play the hero’s part.”
“I don’t care if I’m her or not. All I know is that I can stop bad things from happening in this world.”
“Did you think about the price you will have to pay?”
“Other than living in a mad world where I can’t tell what’s real from what’s not? Yes, I know I want to do this.”
“It’s not that easy. Black Chess is darkness itself. Stare into it too long, and it will stain you with a black veil of unforgettable pain.”
I shrug, tightening my grip on the key. “I believe the world can be a better place, only if the truth, in this case, Black Chess, is exposed and defeated.”
“The truth,” Fabiola considers. “I’m not sure we all want to know about it. What do you have in mind?”
“Like I said, gather the good guys. Jack is with me in the asylum. I will find a way to get the March Hare out of the Hole. I’m not sure where Lewis stands in all of this. I mean, is he alive or dead? But I’m not worried about him, not as much as the little girl.”
“The time hasn’t come to talk about her yet,” Fabiola says. “So I’d postpone looking for her, same goes for Lewis. He has a war of his own, so he’ll show up when it’s his time.”
My eyes meet hers. “And you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you in? If so, my impression is that you’d be the leader.”
“Normally, I would be. But I am not wearing my white outfit to entice wars. I wear it to wipe off the old days of Wonderland when I had blood all over my hands.”
I am oblivious to whatever she is talking about.
“My time and strength are devoted to the people who seek peace in this world,” she follows. “I may give advice, be resourceful, but I’m not going to be part of the Wonderland War when it begins. My real war is to avoid war.”
I am disappointed. I was hoping she’d help, instead of me having to deal with the Pillar’s devious ways—he isn’t one of the good guys. I am not sure whose side he is on.
“At least bless us with a name instead of the Impossible Six.” I let out an uncomfortable chuckle.
“It’s already been picked,” she says. “The Inklings.”
“Already been picked?”
“There was a prophecy in Wonderland: that Alice will return and put an end to Black Chess. Of course, we’re not going to argue whether you’re her or not again.”
“A prophecy.” I wonder if that’s why the Pillar found me. “Inklings?”
“It’s named after a meeting place. A bar known as the Bird, previously known as the Eagle and Child. It’s near Oxford University. It’s a special place. Great people who stood in the face of evil before you attended it regularly.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Of course.” She finally smiles. “J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis, who wrote the Lord of the Rings and the Chronicles of Narnia.”
I tilt my head.
Fabiola senses my confusion. “The Inklings was the name of an elite writers group who met at the bar. Lewis Carroll spent most of his time there, almost a century before Tolkien and C. S. Lewis came, when it wasn’t a bar yet. It’s said they found some of his diaries in there. It was why they attended regularly in the first place.”
“Pardon me, but the connection escapes me, Fabiola. Those writers knew about...?”
“The Wonderland Wars,” Fabiola says. “What did you think those epic fantasies, the Lord of the Rings and Narnia, were about?”
No words come out of my mouth. I’m starting to realize how Wonderland is connected to everything.
“They were meant to inspire generations and educate them about the idea of good and evil in this world.” Fabiola stops to ma
ke sure I am following. “They were discreetly using literature to prepare generations for the Wonderland Wars.”
3
THE EAGLE AND BIRD BAR, OXFORD
The chauffeur watched the Pillar knock his cane on the floor for the hundredth time.
His employer had been sitting alone in this old bar for some time, staring at a golden key in his hand. Rarely had the chauffeur seen the Pillar so gloomy, not the flamboyant and out-of-this-world man he usually was.
The Pillar had just bought this old bar. For over half a million pounds.
The chauffeur wondered if he’d spent that money to tap a cane and stare at a key. Why this bar? There were dozens of old historical bars in Oxford, many of them truly profitable.
The chauffeur wondered if the Pillar had heard of the new Wonderland Monster calling himself Lewis Carroll yet.
Would he be just sitting here if he had?
The Pillar didn’t look like he wanted to talk to anyone.
“So should I employ someone to run this place?” the chauffeur hissed.
“No need,” the Pillar answered, eyes still on the key. “Alice will run the place herself soon. I’m anxious to see if she’d serve good tea like the Hatter back in Wonderland.”
“Alice?”
“Well, let’s say she’s about to finally pick up her team and oppose Black Chess.” The Pillar tucked the key next to his watch inside his breast pocket. He tapped his pocket gently with his white-gloved hand. “The first real step into the War.”
“So, it’s really happening?”
“Wars are inevitable, my lousy driver.” The Pillar stood up and elegantly flipped his cane. “Victories aren’t.”
“Wars like these?” The chauffeur turned on the TV. The six o’clock news was covering the incident with the creepy Lewis Carroll look-a-like claiming he’d spread an incurable plague to the world.
“That’s just the tip of the iceberg,” the Pillar said. “I hope you didn’t smoke any of those toy hookahs yourself.”
“Not at all, Professor. I’m not into puffing bubbles,” the chauffeur prided himself. “But if I may ask: is the plague real?”
“Looks too real, in fact.”
The chauffeur wasn’t sure what that meant.
“Get my plane ready,” the Pillar said, slowly easing into a better mood.
“That plane is in the Vatican. You just let Alice use it this morning.”
“Not that plane.” The Pillar knocked his cane against the floor.
The chauffeur swallowed hard. “You mean the War Plane?”
The Pillar nodded, momentarily closing his eyes. “In fact, I want all my planes ready and handy. The choppers, too. Don’t forget the guns.”
They hadn’t used the planes since the Pillar went on a rampage, killing twelve people some time ago. “Where are we going, Professor?”
“We’re going to pay a visit to darkness itself,” the Pillar said, diverting his focus on the broadcasting news. “Welcome home, Lewis Carroll. It’s been some time.”
4
THE EAGLE AND BIRD BAR, OXFORD
AN HOUR AFTER THE PILLAR LEFT
I received the Pillar’s call a few hours ago while I was still in the Vatican. He’d given me the address to the Inklings bar with the location of its key in a Tiger Lily pot beside the door.
I picked up the key and entered the place. On the table, there was a contract in my name. The Pillar bought me the headquarters of my Inklings gathering place.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to look at the historical signatures of the likes of Tolkien and C.S. Lewis on the walls. I was stopped, and shocked, by the news about the Lewis Carroll man on TV.
Now I am standing, staring at the TV in awkward awe.
Is this for real?
The man in the news looks just like the Lewis Carroll I saw through the Tom Tower and Einstein’s Blackboard.
Lewis Carroll is a Wonderland Monster?
“This can’t be,” I say to emptiness.
“I thought so, too.” The Pillar’s chauffeur appears out of nowhere. “But whoever he is, you need to look at this.”
He points at the BBC’s world coverage of what looks like people coughing red bubbles all over the world.
The BBC says that doctors haven’t found a medical explanation for it. Nothing in the hookahs shows a hostile infection of any sort. Still, it’s spreading fast, and they’re worried it’ll lead to a disaster in a few hours.
“The Pillar assured me this is the beginning of an unimaginable plague,” the chauffeur says.
“People coughing red bubbles. What kind of plague is that?”
“The Pillar said you’d say that, so he recorded this little video for you.” He shows me a YouTube video on his phone.
“Think about it, Alice. Have you ever seen anyone cough bubbles, let alone red? Do as my chauffeur tells you.” The Pillar drags from his hookah. “Ah, and don’t forget to sign the contract. Congrats, you own a bar now. At least you have a job, in case you lose your career as a magnificent lunatic patient in the asylum.”
The video ends.
I look at the contract, not sure if I should accept a half a million pound gift. I tell myself Fabiola would accept it; the Inklings is part of the prophecy.
I sign both the Pillar’s and my copy, not reading through.
As I hand it back to the chauffeur, I glimpse a condition in the contract written at the bottom of the page:
The two parties who share the Inklings Bar are bound by the agreement in this contract for an unknown time. The contract is automatically canceled once Alice saves the world from every last Wonderland Monster.
“Would you kindly seal the envelope?” the chauffeur suggests. “The Pillar demanded you seal his copy yourself, so I don’t peek into it.”
“Trust issues?” I roll my eyes, both at the request and the lines in the contract, then lick the envelope to seal it.
But it’s a short roll of eyes, and a shorter lick, only halfway through. I find myself swirling down to the floor like a dying flower.
The envelope’s tip contains some kind of sedative. The Pillar’s drugged me again.
5
PILLAR’S PLANE,
SOMEWHERE NEXT TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD
I wake up to the suffocating and blurry waves of hookah smoke.
Coughing, I part the drapes of smoking curtains and feel my way through this delirium. At the end of the maze, I come to find the Pillar sitting on his favorite couch, dragging and puffing while fiddling with his hookah’s hose.
“I thought I’d bring the couch with me,” he says. “What’s a man without his favorite couch?”
Instead of screaming and pulling hair, I look around and figure out where I am. I may have been a fool for licking the envelope, but I can still tell I’m inside a plane.
An air bump shakes the flight momentarily. I grab for the nearest seat but end up slumping next to the Pillar on the couch.
He doesn’t lose balance. “Never understood what an air bump is,” he says. “I mean, could we have bumped into a giant mushroom cloud up here?”
“Not funny,” I adjust myself on the couch, and now the flight is normal again.
“Want to see what’s really not funny?” He clicks on the TV. “We have a new Wonderland Monster.”
I am watching the same news I saw in the Inklings, only things are getting worse now. People don’t just cough red bubbles. They’re starting to get edgy after it, looking rather mean, like they’re about to hurt one another.
“Who is this Wonderland Monster, really?” I ask. “The Cheshire?”
“The Cheshire can’t possess any of the main Wonderlanders, in case you didn’t notice.” The Pillar sets the hookah aside and waves off some smoke. “But you’re also right.”
“Meaning?”
“The man is Lewis Carroll.”
“That can’t be. Lewis isn’t a monster. He is the one who locked the monsters in Wonderland.”
“I g
uess he forgot to lock himself in, too. Or, how about he just made you believe he isn’t a monster in the Tom Tower?” The Pillar’s face is unreadable. Is he telling the truth? “The man was nuts. Migraines and split personality. He was schizophrenic. Left-handed and unable to hear with his right ear. It all happened particularly after the events of the Circus. He lost his grip on reality when he relied on drugs to ease his mind from the trauma.”
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
“I didn’t believe I’d ever grow up and become old when I was a kid, either,” he says.” I mean, why would God do this to me? I was having a great time being small and unnoticed, doing whatever I wanted.”
Like usual, I pass on commenting. “So Lewis was really using drugs?”
“Drugs were still legal until the middle of the 19th century.” He pulls out an 80’s cassette player and squeezes a tape inside.
“Really?” I can’t understand how. Things like this, and the Circus, make me look at humanity from a new and different perspective. How could drugs have been legal only a century and a half ago?
“In the eyes of society, and himself, Lewis wasn’t doing anything wrong at the time.” He pushes the sticky button. Melodies of White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane blast out of the worn-out cassette player. The Pillar begins his Caucus Race dance. “A lot of writers, including Charles Dickens, took those legal drugs at the time. Makes you wonder if he could have produced his masterpieces without them.” He winks. “But all geniuses have a vice, don’t they?” He points at his hookah. “Besides, really, read that Alice in Wonderland book again. It’s full of hallucinations and madness. Maybe the dude was a little tipsy when he wrote it.”
I’m not fond of him talking about Lewis like that, but I need to hear more first.
“Lewis had issues, so what?” The Pillar shakes his shoulders. “We just don’t like to talk about them, so we continue living in our la-la world.” He stretches his arms sideways and imitates a bird’s wings while half-circling in place. “My moves are getting better.”
