by Cameron Jace
They end up not knowing about the Wonderland Monsters trying to bring this world down every week — although it’s been two weeks now and no monster showed up.
I think I have grown a measure of pessimism lately. How can’t I when I am sitting all alone in a long row in the auditorium? All by myself. It’s been the same since the first day I arrived.
Students don’t talk to me here. Someone spread the news about the girl who killed her classmates in a school bus a few years ago. That mad girl, you know her? Stay away from her. She is bad news.
At least they don’t know I live in an asylum.
And here I am. The professor speaks. The students listen. I am the lonely black sheep trying to fit in this world.
On a few occasions, I want to scream at them and tell them how I saved their asses every week. But I’m a mad girl, after all. Everything I say is laughable, even if it’s the sanest thing in the world.
Somehow, in all this mess, all I think about now is Jack. Wouldn’t it be fun if he were here with me?
But Jack is gone. I have no idea why. Since two weeks ago, when I traveled to Mushroomland, he hasn’t shown up. I feel guilty leaving him behind in the asylum and hope to God nothing bad has happened to him.
The lecture ends, and I get out.
I take the walk of shame into the hall, eyes stuck on me, whispers behind my back, and a blurry future in front of me.
Future? The word resonates because I wonder how it’s possible to think of my future when I hardly know enough about my past.
Who am I? Mary Ann? Alice? The Real Alice? An orphan? Who are my real parents? Is any of this really happening?
Still walking, I come across a peculiar picture framed on the university’s walls. A photo of one of its most memorable professors. Professor Carter Pillar.
Funny how he looks like a nerd in the photo — a few years back, I suppose. The photo must have been taken before he read the Alice’s Adventures Under Ground books. Before he went mad and killed twelve people.
Am I ever going to see you again, Pillar?
Last time I saw him, he told me he’d see me in fourteen years. I know he looked like he meant it. As he is sometimes a vicious and morally conflicted man, it’s hard to confess this: I miss him.
Fourteen years is a long time, professor. I’ve been thinking about it for the last two weeks. And I wonder: does it have anything to do with the number written on my cell wall? January 14th?
I walk through the Tom Quad and leave the university. Outside, people are gathered. The streets are in chaos. Car accidents everywhere. A man has drowned in the river, they say.
Everyone is bothered, concerned, and worried. All but me. Because it looks like a Wonderland Monster has arrived.
Is it a bad thing to admit I’m happy? Oh, how bored I have been without a Wonderland Monster in the picture.
2
THE INKLINGS BAR, OXFORD
Back in the Inklings, I am thinking there is a new mission for me. But I am wrong.
Fabiola, once the White Queen and the Vatican’s most loved woman, is sitting by a table near a bar, drinking beer. She is surrounded by all sorts of drunk customers who have more tattoos than hers. It’s a drinking contest. Fabiola is winning. I can’t believe my eyes.
Fabiola gulps. A man gulps. Man falls unconscious to the table, and all Fabiola says is, “Next!” Then she burps and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Hey, Alice,” she says on my way in. “Want in?”
I don’t even answer her. I roll my eyes and move on to the March Hare.
The genius professor is cleaning the floor, talking to himself in whispers. I think he is thinking in equations, or of a new design for a garden. He still thinks Black Chess installed the light bulb in his head. Maybe he is right. Sometimes I wonder: don’t we all have light bulbs in our heads?
The March is also surrounded by a few of the children we saved in Columbia. They follow him everywhere, but he refuses to give up his broom.
“He is like a child.” I wink at the children. “You need to ask him politely.”
They laugh at me and say, “He is a child, Alice.”
“March,” I say. “How have you been?”
“Better than Fabiola.” He nods toward her, but she doesn’t hear him.
“Yeah,” I say. “What’s with the drinking contest?”
“She is upset.”
“Why?”
“A little earlier, a few women who knew her from the Vatican came all the way here asking for confessions and advice.”
“Oh. What happened then?”
“She told them, ‘If you want to ask Him something, just raise your hands and say it.’ Then she offered them a beer. One of the women left crying. Another said Fabiola was possessed by the devil. This one before them isn’t the White Queen anymore.”
“I see.”
“And then someone came and asked for the Pillar.”
“I suppose this didn’t end well at all.”
“She threw a glass at him and threw him out.”
“I wonder why she hates him so much,” I say.
“I wonder if she can ever forget her days in Wonderland.”
“So, you know how Fabiola was before becoming a nun?”
The conversation is interrupted by Fabiola. “It’s time to start real Inklings work.”
“I was hoping you’d tell me a new Wonderland Monster arrived,” I say.
She wipes her mouth again, looking a bit tipsy. “Worse.”
“Really?” the March says.
“Is this about the chaos on the streets of London?” I say.
“The chaos is only a handshake with darkness.” Fabiola kicks a man out of his chair and tells him to leave, then pulls the chair over and sits. “Sit down. This new mission is different.”
I sit. “A scarier Wonderland Monster?”
“That’s too soon to tell. What we have here is an offer.”
“An offer? From whom?”
“From the most vicious killer in history,” Fabiola says. “A murderer. He always arrives on time. Not a tick too soon, and not a tock too late.”
3
There isn’t much time to digest the sentence Fabiola uttered. The bar’s door flings open. A man and a woman enter. Everyone else leaves immediately.
The man is tall and has an oval head. Like a cantaloupe. The woman is stocky, short, and mean. There is something wicked about them. Not exactly morbid. But a feeling of inevitability surges through me. Then I realize who they are — time itself.
“You think she is the one, Mrs. Tock?” the tall man asks the short woman as if I am a silent picture on the wall.
“Could be.” Mrs. Tock knocks her cane on the floor. “Hard to tell. But she’s got that look.”
“What look exactly?” Mr. Tick says.
“The look that says, ‘I can’t go back to yesterday because blah blah blah.’”
I find myself staring at my tattoo.
“Meet Mr. Tick and Mrs. Tock,” Fabiola says, obviously not fond of them. “The two creeps that messed up time in Wonderland.”
“Pleasure to meet you again, White Queen.” Mr. Tick plays with his hairies. “Sad to see you go from warrior to drunk, though.”
Fabiola grips the chair tighter but suppresses her anger.
“How does it feel to deceive people into thinking you’re an angel in the Vatican?” Mrs. Tock says. “Or, tell you what, let’s skip the subject for now. We’re here for the girl.”
“Me?” I say.
“Didn’t Fabiola tell you about the offer?” Mr. Tick says.
“She was about to.”
“Let me summarize it for you.” He grabs a seat and sits, tapping his pocket watch. “I’m afraid we have little time.”
“But, you’re time.” March Hare says.
“Shut up, March,” Mrs. Tock says. “Go play with kids. Or eat your cereal.”
I’m about to stand up for him when Fabiola grips my hand. I sit
back, reluctant to know what’s going on.
“We have an offer from Black Chess,” Mr. Tick says.
“So, we’re playing with open cards now?” Fabiola says.
“Why not? The Inklings are ready. So is Black Chess. All in the name of World War Wonderland.”
“Get to the point,” I demand. “Who in Black Chess sent you?”
“The big guys, which I’m not going to reveal,” Mr. Tick says. “Trust me. My offer is more tempting than knowing who really runs Black Chess.”
“I’m listening,” I say.
“She is feisty, Mr. Tick,” Mrs. Tock remarks.
“A desirable trait if she really is her,” Mr. Tick says.
“Cut the crap,” I say. “Why are you here? Talk or leave.”
“Before we talk, let me ask you a question,” Mr. Tick says, leaning forward. “What do you know about time travel?”
4
“That’s it.” I stand up. “You better leave now.”
“Wait, Alice.” Fabiola pulls me back again. “Time travel is real. Not like the Einstein Blackboard, which only sends you back to Wonderland.”
I sit down.
“Only Mr. Tick and I,” Mrs. Tock says, “can execute time travel.”
“Although there are a few conditions that have to present themselves to do it properly,” Mr. Tick says. “But you don’t need to worry about that.”
“Why do I need to worry about it in the first place?”
“Because of our offer,” Mrs. Tock says. “We want to make you time travel.”
“What kind of offer is that?” I say.
“We want to send you to the future,” Mr. Tick says.
“Is this a joke?”
“We’re time, darling,” Mrs. Tock says. “We don’t joke.”
“Ask older people,” Mr. Tick adds. “Or the man who just missed his ride outside.”
“Or the student who’s going to fail tomorrow’s test because he didn’t respect us, time, enough and ended up sleeping through his classes,” Mrs. Tock says.
“Or the man who is going to die in” — Mr. Tick stares at his watch — “about three seconds before he ever did what he always wanted to do.”
“And why?” Mrs. Tock snickers at Mr. Tick.
“Because he thought that time, us, is on his side.” Mr. Tick high-fives Mrs. Tock. He has to lower his hands though.
“We get it,” Fabiola says. “Tell us why you want to send Alice to the future. Why would Black Chess openly offer us this? What’s the point?”
“Didn’t you figure it out yet?” Mrs. Tock sneers.
“Here is the deal,” Mr. Tick says. “Black Chess will use our services because we have common business interests. They want to send Alice into the future so she can locate what’s left of the Six Impossible Keys.”
5
“Wouldn’t it be more convenient to send me back in time to know where I hid them?” I ask.
“And risk the possibility that you may have changed their location in the past twelve years and then forgot about it?” Mr. Tick says.
“Or better, the possibility of you using them for your own cause while you’re in the past?” Mrs. Tock says.
“I’m not sure I’m following,” I say.
“The logic is that in the future, the keys should have been already used and that either Black Chess or the Inklings have already won the Wonderland Wars,” Mr. Tick says. “Also, there is one other advantage.”
“Which is?”
“The rules of time are that you can bring objects back from the future, but not from the past to the future,” Mr. Tick says.
“Aren’t you time? Change the rules,” I say.
“We’re actually working for Time. Mr. Time doesn’t want to be known at this time in history. But we have full authority to talk on his behalf,” Mr. Tick says. “So just humor us. We can’t send you into the future without your consent.”
“So let’s say she follows this loony plan and brings back the keys from the future,” Fabiola says. “Why would Black Chess help us do that?”
“Black Chess’s problem is the whereabouts of the Six Impossible Keys. Taking them by force from you isn’t the trouble. They believe they are stronger,” Mr. Tick says. “So the idea is to bring the keys, have them in your possession, and fight us when we try to take them from you. They’re up to that challenge.”
If I accept, we’ll have to have a plan to hide the keys immediately. Maybe I can find a way to send a message back to the future. It’s risky.
“What do you think, Fabiola?” I say.
“I say no. Because you’re the only one who knows the whereabouts of the keys. Sooner or later, you’ll find them here without their help. They need us. We don’t need them.”
“Wouldn’t you want to know for sure if you’re the Real Alice?” Mr. Tick asks me. “Think about it. All the evidence you gathered from the past could have been given to you. Maybe the sneaky Pillar played you into thinking you were the Real Alice. How do you know he didn’t plant the keys you found in the basement of your house and made you think you’d found them yourself?”
“I met Lewis Carroll’s ghost in here,” I say. “He told me I’m the Real Alice.”
“It’s a ghost. An apparition. Who said it can’t be manipulated?” Mr. Tick argues. “But the future never lies. You will definitely know if you’re the Real Alice by finding all the keys there and knowing what happens to you in the future.”
“I’m not so keen about my future without my past,” I say. “I think I’ll decline. Please leave now.”
“She leaves us no choice, Mrs. Tock,” Mr. Tick tells his wife.
“I hate it when people don’t accept our kindness.” Mrs. Tock shakes her head.
Suddenly the March Hare stiffens in place as if electrified by an invisible current. He falls to the floor.
“We planted this. Cyanide in his milk,” Mr. Tick says. “To wake him up, he needs an antidote. And only we have it.”
Fabiola reaches for her Vorpal sword, but neither of the two loons flinch.
“I wouldn’t do that, because the only way to save the March Hare is to go back in time and relieve him from his poison,” Mrs. Tock sneers, all the joy in the world flaming in her eyes. “Cyanide is incurable.”
“Besides, it’s time that cuts like a knife. Not a Vorpal sword,” Mr. Tick mocks Fabiola. “So please sit down and accept our offer.”
I stare at their ugly faces without flinching. I muster the look of the unafraid, but my knees are shaking. Not the March Hare. Please don’t kill him.
“Think of it as a school trip on a bus,” Mr. Tick tells me. “Except you don’t have to kill your classmates this time.”
“You’ll also get to know Jack’s fate in the future,” Mr. Tick says. “I think you want to know about that.”
“Shut up, you creeps.” I grit my teeth. “Let’s do it. Send me to the future.”
6
MARGARET KENT’S OFFICE, BRITISH PARLIAMENT, LONDON
Margaret Kent had her acquaintances gathered around her. The Cheshire, Carolus Ludovicus, and a crew of Red mercenaries. She sat back in her chair, imagining she would be Queen when this was all over. It was simple, really. She would get the keys, chop off the Queen of Hearts’ head, and play football with it in a festive celebration broadcast on live TV.
But it was a long road to freedom.
“Mr. Tick and Mrs. Tock offered Alice the deal, and she took the bait,” Margaret said. “It’s only hours, and the Six Impossible Keys will be ours.”
“Meow.” The Cheshire moaned happily, still disguised in Jack’s body, which made him look weirder.
“Don’t meow in my office.” Margaret groaned. “This is Parliament, not a barn.”
Carolus laughed next to the Cheshire. He had just gotten his Lullaby shot, a sedative that kept him calm enough not to kill anyone, or to look for Lewis Carroll to kill him.
Margaret actually felt nauseated, having a man looking like Lewis Ca
rroll and another looking like Jack Diamonds in her office. It seemed so wrong, but she didn’t want to give it much thought now.
“My point is that sending Alice into the future is taking place at the Inklings,” she said. “It’s your job to surround the place, and make sure to get the keys by force when she wakes up.”
“What if she tries to trick us?” Carolus asked.
“Then you bring her to me. We’ll torture her until she tells us where the keys are.”
“Could I volunteer to do the torture?” the Cheshire said. “I’d like to see the look on her face, being tortured by Jack, the love of her life.”
Margaret smirked. “Nasty idea. Brilliant.”
“We’ve always been two messed-up individuals,” the Cheshire said.
“Me too,” Carolus said eagerly.
“One happy family.” Margaret rolled her eyes. “Wait and see how much we’ll want to kill each other when we find the keys.”
“Meow.” That was Carolus this time.
Margaret glared at him.
“You said you don’t want the Cheshire to meow, not me,” Carolus said.
“Your meow sucks,” the Cheshire said.
“Yeah?” Carolus said and stared him in the eyes.
“Yeah,” the Cheshire retorted. “It lacks cat subtlety.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Something, only cats, can do,” the Cheshire said.
“Like grinning?” Carolus grinned, mustering a Lewis Carroll look. Which really irritated Margaret.
“Your grinning would scare only a child,” the Cheshire argued. “Mine makes a soldier piss in his boots.”
“You mean a cat piss in his boots. Want to punch me in the face to show me how to grin and meow? Ha!” Carolus began to lose his temper.
“Seriously,” the Cheshire said. “You’re nothing without a pill, thinking it’s a man. You’re a ghost of a man at best.”
“Girls!” Margaret rapped her hand on the desk.
