Unhinged

by A. G. Howard

  I hesitate, wishing I could rescue both of them. It’s a risk, and if I fail trying, Jeb doesn’t stand a chance against Sister Two.

  Morpheus, on the other hand, does.

  Eyes stinging, I sprint toward the storeroom. I make the mistake of throwing one last glance over my shoulder. Sister Two casts a web that covers Morpheus’s silhouette, and I scream.

  He shouts, “Go, Alyssa!” His voice is strained and muffled as she twists him toward her like she’s reeling in a fish, building a cocoon around him on the way.

  I turn because I have to, because Jeb needs me and Wonderland is running out of time. Although every pounding step I take rips my heart further down the middle.

  There isn’t time to hide my wings.

  For safety, Jeb and I stay in the bathroom and take the mirror above the sink to London. He’s cooperative, not even asking questions as I twist the key into the crackled glass and open the portal to the bridge in the distance. Wooden slats partially block the view, as if a gate is closed just on the other side of the mirror.

  I climb onto the sink and reach inside to push it open, then I plunge through. The motion sickness is as bad as the first few times I traveled via mirror. I guess it’s been too long.

  Once I have my balance, I stand to face the London side of the portal—a six-foot-tall garden mirror that has two wooden panels giving the illusion of a gated entrance. There’s no one else around, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  The sun hangs low on the horizon, streaking orange across a clear sky. A village sits on the other side of the river, complete with busy streets, people, and charming buildings set so close they could be Legos snapped together. Trees cover the hill I’m standing on, casting shade in thick patches of blue on the grassy ground. A brick cottage hunkers a few yards away from me. Though it looks abandoned, the garden is vibrant and flourishing.

  Gardenia, larkspur, and hyacinth fill the air with sweet scents. Bees and butterflies flutter around the petals and leaves. Their unified whispers tickle my ears:

  You’re not the first to trek this ground. Your mother was here before you.

  Yes, she was. Yesterday, when she hid my mosaics. I’m about to ask if they happened to see exactly where she hid them on the bridge when Jeb ducks through the mirror wearing my backpack. He sways but takes the disorientation in stride, thinking it’s all part of the dream.

  If only it were a dream.

  I fight the prick of tears behind my eyes again. Morpheus has to be okay. I can’t believe he gave himself up so I could take Jeb with me. Of course he wants me to find the final mosaic. He wants me to save Wonderland. Maybe there’s even a deeper plan, some secret scheme. I can’t be sure where he’s involved.

  Still. It took courage. And he also alluded to having a part in stealing Sister Two’s dream-boy. If the dream-boy is who I think he is, it changes everything I’ve ever thought about my mom … about my life … even about Morpheus.

  “Hey,” Jeb says, touching my cheek. He draws back his hand and studies a tear I didn’t realize had escaped. “This can’t be right. You’re never sad in my dreams.”

  “It’s nothing.” I rub my face. “It’s just the rain.”

  He looks up. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.” Then he levels his gaze on our surroundings. “Where is this place? I’ve never imagined it before.”

  “Maybe this is my dream.” I attempt to ease his mind. “Yeah. You’re sharing mine.”

  He stares at me, expression doubtful. We need to start heading for the bridge before he fully wakes up, but I wait one minute longer, hoping Morpheus will come through the portal. Sister Two can’t find us. He was careful not to reveal where we were headed.

  When he doesn’t show up, I stifle the twinge in my chest and swing the wooden gate shut again to camouflage the mirror.

  I grab Jeb’s hand and weave his fingers with mine. “Let’s go.”

  “Just a second.” He catches my elbow with his free hand. “My stomach’s growling. That’s weird for a dream, isn’t it?” There’s a new inquisitiveness behind his eyes. “What’s really going on?”

  He’s coming out of his daze, and when he’s conscious, he’ll be too savvy to fall for any more lame excuses. We don’t have much time before all the pain of unremembered and unreachable memories comes crashing in on him. I decide to take the train ride before searching for the mosaic.

  Morpheus said the abandoned station is somewhere beneath the ground. I’m not sure where the secret entrance might be. I had hoped Chessie would be here to lead the way.

  “Everything will make sense soon,” I answer Jeb. “I’ll find us something to eat once we get where we’re going. Trust me. Okay?”

  He nods, but a shadow falls over his expression. I have to hurry before he curls up into a ball again. The bridge is so far. I’m not sure he’ll keep it together for the trek. If only I could fly him there without being seen by the people on the other side of the river. But even if it was nighttime instead of early evening, he’d be too heavy for me. I know that much from past experience.

  Before I can do anything, I need to figure out how to find the underground train station.

  “Help me look through your pockets,” I press Jeb. “There should be tickets in here somewhere.” They might have directions or maybe a map on the back.

  Jeb frowns, as if just noticing the jacket he’s wearing isn’t his, but digs through his side pockets without asking whose it is. He drags out a handful of mushrooms with caps the size of dimes.

  “Are these glow-in-the-dark gummies?” he asks. There’s a hint of apprehension behind the question.

  I don’t answer, afraid to tell him that they’re real and from Wonderland. They’re fluorescent and small, which makes them look like candy. Some are neon orange and others are lime green, but all are solid and smooth on one side and speckled with tiny pink dots on the other—miniature versions of the mushrooms in Morpheus’s lair.

  I search the inner pocket of Jeb’s lapel for the tickets. Something crinkles beneath my fingertips, and I draw it out. I unfold the piece of paper. It’s a sketch similar to the ones Mom had tucked in her Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland book. This one has a caterpillar sitting atop a mushroom, smoking a hookah.

  The puffs of smoke form legible words:

  One side makes you taller, the other side shorter.

  It’s from the scene in Lewis Carroll’s tale when Alice complains to the caterpillar that she wishes to be taller and he suggests she eat the mushroom to grow but leaves her without telling which side does what.

  I crumple the piece of paper, frustrated that everything always has to be so difficult.

  “Where are the tickets?” I vent to no one in particular. “He said everything we need is here.”

  A large monarch butterfly flitters over on a breeze and lands on my shoulder. One flapping wing tickles my neck as she whispers: The ticket is your size, silly. You could never fit on the train as you are.

  I stare at the bulbous-eyed insect.

  “Don’t try the candy,” Jeb says, making me turn back to him. “It’s stale.” He’s chewing something.

  “Jeb!” I grab the mushroom pinched between his finger and thumb. Half of its cap has been bitten off, leaving only the speckled side. “Spit it out!” In my haste to get closer to him, I knock all of the mushrooms out of his palm. They scatter on the ground.

  He swallows and meets my gaze. Before I can react, he starts to shrink and doesn’t stop until he’s the size of a small beetle—the similarity enhanced by the tiny backpack on his shoulders.

  That’s all it takes to bust his dream trance. He rolls into a fetal position and screams. Even as tiny as he is, the sound scrapes through me like claws. I crouch to scoop him up, but the butterfly swoops in and snatches him with her legs. She hovers just out of my reach, at eye level.

  “Hey, give him back!” I jump to my feet but refrain from swatting her. The backpack tumbles off him and hits the ground. If Jeb falls from that height,
it could kill him.

  The monarch gracefully dances in midair and whispers: Your boy makes a far better flower than you.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  Any wise flower knows: Stretch for the sunlight and shrink from the shadows.

  And then she’s off toward the bridge with my groaning boyfriend in tow.

  In full panic mode, I’m about take to the sky and risk being seen by the entire village, when everything starts to make sense: The ticket is our size; to get on the train, we have to be small. That’s what the mushrooms are for. According to the butterfly’s riddle and Jeb’s transformation, the side that faces the sun and becomes freckled will make you grow, and the side that faces the shadows and is smooth will shrink you.

  I shove all the remaining mushrooms in my jeans pocket except one. I’ve done this before, but with a bottle that said Drink Me. My clothes and everything touching me shrank, just like Jeb’s did.

  I nibble off half of the mushroom’s cap, taking care not to ingest any of the speckled side. My first taste is sweet, like paper soaked in sugar water; then a fizzy sensation leaves my tongue numb.

  My muscles contract, my bones narrow, and my skin and cartilage tighten to hold everything together. The surroundings shoot up around me, flowers becoming the size of trees, and the trees the size of skyscrapers. Tall fronds of grass bend across me. It’s like I’m in a jungle.

  As soon as my metamorphosis is complete, I shake off the nausea, swing the backpack over one shoulder, and use my wings like I’ve been itching to for months. I clench my shoulders and arch my spine, my muscles falling into a rhythm with almost no effort. Just like skateboarding, it feels natural.

  My hair slaps around my face. Up, up, up, through the strands of grass and looming flowers until my boots skim the tops of the giant trees. The height is exhilarating, and I’m little enough that no one can see me from the village.

  I catch up to the butterfly. Jeb moans and droops in her hold. As if choreographed, we descend on a current of air. I follow her into a crack in the brick foundation of the iron bridge. We maneuver through the hole and burst out into a deserted elevator passageway where arriving train passengers used to wait for rides up to the village. The muffled sounds of cars and people overhead drift in through vents. I hover in midair next to the butterfly, keeping Jeb in my sight.

  The tunnel is lit with moving chandeliers, rolling like miniature Ferris wheels across the curved, stone ceiling. As they come closer, I realize they’re actually clusters of lightning bugs, harnessed together. Each rotation illuminates dingy tiled walls and faded advertising from the 1950s. The posters are giant compared to me—as big as buildings.

  The train, on the other hand, is just the right size, and it’s now obvious what Morpheus meant about it not being a form of transport. In a shadowy corner, a rusted tin train set is tucked within a pile of toys—some wooden blocks, a pinwheel, some jigsaw puzzle pieces, and a few rubber jacks. The playthings were either forgotten or abandoned by children waiting with their parents at the elevator decades ago. A large sign hangs over the pile. The words LOST AND FOUND have been marked out and replaced by the phrase TRAIN OF THOUGHT.

  Boxcars, flatcars, and passenger cars connect to an engine and caboose, perfectly scaled to our current size. Through the shadows, I can barely make out the title Memory’s Mystic Band painted in black letters across the red engine.

  The butterfly deposits Jeb next to one of the passenger cars. I hurry after her, trying to remember how to land. The car door opens. Something that looks like a walking rug wearing a black conductor hat steps out and drags Jeb in. I skim the dirt with my boots to slow my momentum, dropping the backpack. I’m unable to thank the butterfly as she leaves, too busy keeping my balance.

  I skate to a stop as the carpet creature shuts the door.

  “Wait!” I cry, sprinting toward the train and clambering onto the car’s platform.

  After I pound on the door several times, the shaggy creature opens it.

  He blocks the entrance; I can’t see around him into the train. “State your name and your business.” His high-pitched voice crackles and snaps as he speaks.

  The car’s amber glow illuminates his form: six sticklike legs—two sets serving as arms—compound eyes, crisscrossed mandibles that click when he talks, an oval-shaped thorax and abdomen hidden under a hide of shag carpet.

  “Bug in a rug … is that it?” I ask.

  His mandibles droop as if he’s scowling. “I prefer ‘carpet beetle,’ madam. Just because I stumbled into the tulgey wood and was swallowed and turned away at AnyElsewhere’s gate doesn’t give you the right to talk down to me. You think you’d fare any better as a reject?” He sniffs, or maybe huffs—it’s hard to tell with his many moving facial features. “You certainly don’t act like someone who wishes to board this train.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” In my Shop of Human Eccentricities memory, toys and objects were spit back out of the tulgey wood shelves in mutated forms. I had no idea the same thing could happen to living things, too.

  “You act like I’m the queerest thing you’ve seen come out of those woods.” The carpet beetle drags a vacuum attachment from a holster at his side and flips it on. It whistles and hums, sucking dust from his carpeted coat. “Have you never met the carpenter ant?” He raises his voice over the noise as he cleans himself. “Her whole body is made of tools. She has a saw for a hand! Try making her acquaintance without losing a finger. Or the earwig? Entire body is an ear. Feeds herself through a dirty old ear horn. Least I’m pleasant to dine with. And that hornet fellow … blows out your eardrums with a trumpet call each time his wings flutter. I’m by far the most palatable of the looking-glass rejects. And the cleanest, to be sure.” Satisfied with his vacuuming job, he turns off the attachment and secures it in the holster once more.

  Looking-glass rejects = looking-glass insects.

  Another near-consistency with the Wonderland novels. Carroll mentioned bread-and-butterflies, rocking-horse-flies, and snapdragon-flies. Maybe they had all been spit back out of the tulgey woods in strange and awful forms.

  “Now, last chance,” the carpet beetle says. “Name and business. Make it quick.” He turns the pages of a small journal with a spindly foreleg, cradling the book with two others. “I’ve passengers already on the manifest, waiting for their ride. Time’s a-wasting.”

  “I’m Alyssa. I’m here with one of your passengers. The human boy you just pulled in.” I try to peer around the bug’s fluffed-out body to see where Jeb is, but he blocks me.

  He closes the journal. “Did you say Alyssa? As in Queen Alyssa of the nether-realm?”

  “Yes … that’s me,” I answer cautiously.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so from the get-go? I’ve been expecting you. This way.” The bug moves, two of his forelegs gesturing me inside.

  I step in. The passenger car is resplendent, ceiling aglow with more firefly chandeliers, although these don’t roll. Crimson velvet hangings line the walls. Red and black tiles cover the floor. The front section has rows of empty white vinyl seats like those on a typical passenger train. The back is divided into private rooms, outer walls shiny black with red closed doors—three rooms on either side with a narrow center aisle separating them. I follow the conductor down the aisle.

  “Morpheus said you’d be coming on behalf of a mortal guest,” explains the beetle.

  My heartbeat skips, hopeful. “You mean Morpheus is here?”

  “Was here,” my host responds. “This morning. Haven’t seen him since.”

  My hope fades. “But he told you I’d be bringing a mortal? How could he have known?”

  “Nay. I didn’t say that. He told me you’d be coming on behalf of one. Told me the lad’s name, so I could ready his memories for transfer.”

  “Jebediah Holt, right?”

  The beetle stops next to the first two rooms and turns to face me, scratching the carpet under his hat as if puzzled. “Never heard th
at name.”

  “He’s the boy who came with me. The one the butterfly dropped off a few minutes ago. Where is he?”

  “The boy who came in before you … ah, yes. He’s in this room here.”

  The conductor points to the first door on my right. There are brass brackets on each door with removable nameplates. Jeb’s is marked Nameless. I reach for the knob, but it’s locked. I try to force the door open, leaning in with one winged shoulder.

  “Now, we’ll have none of that.” The conductor grabs my wrist with his spiny leg, and I shudder from the cold, prickly sensation.

  I pull away and frown. “I need to make sure he’s okay.”

  “He’s about to be.”

  “Shouldn’t you at least put his name on the door?”

  “His memories can find him on their own now that he’s here. They’ve been waiting for him, after all. But since you are to view memories that aren’t yours, we needed a name to coax them in.”

  I look over my shoulder at Jeb’s door as we walk down the aisle. I don’t want anyone else’s memories; I don’t need to know any more secrets; I just want to make sure my boyfriend’s all right. My throat tightens as we come to the last room on the left. I force myself to look at the name in the bracket: Thomas Gardner.

  Even though a part of me suspected as much, I gasp, holding my hand at my numb lips.

  The conductor opens the door and leads me into a small, windowless room that smells like almonds. On one side, an ivory tapestry hangs above a cream-colored chaise lounge. An ornate brass floor lamp stands beside it, casting a soft glow. On the other side there’s a small stage complete with red velvet curtains that appear ready to part at any moment to show a silent movie on a silver screen.

  “Have a seat, and the show will begin shortly,” the beetle instructs.

  “Right. The show.” I settle into the chaise, arranging my wings on either side of me. There’s a small table to my left holding a plate piled with moonbeam cookies on a lace doily. My mouth waters as I grab a handful. I scarf down three before I realize the bug is staring at me with his compound eyes.