The Hatter's Wife

by Anna B. Madrise

  I was within grasp of my prize.

  “The Yews—they grow in the south—of the old churchyard next to the cemetery.” I felt triumphant.

  “Well done, Mrs. Milner.” Mr. Cogs handed me the gold box with the new pocket watch inside. “But remember, you will only get one chance to tinker with Time.”

  I felt like I could fly. I now knew where Time lived.

  The room began to rotate again, and Mr. Cogs hastily checked his own pocket watch. “Oh my! Our time’s almost up! This way, Mrs. Milner. Five skips to the right and then five hops down the steps. Twist five times to the left, and the back door will open right up!”

  “But I don’t know what the tax is that I need to pay to Time!” I began to panic while I skipped, hopped, and then twisted. Mr. Cogs kept odd hours. Getting another appointment with him, so close to this one, would only happen once in a Blue Moon, and I was not waiting until July to see him again.

  The room began to pick up pace as it spun rapidly about, which signaled my alternative option—being stuck inside Mr. Cogs’s house, until July. What on earth would we talk about after all that time had passed?

  Precision is everything where Watchmakers are concerned.

  Never forget that.

  Upon my last twist, the back door popped open. Perfect timing, really.

  “Mr. Cogs!” I yelled to him before my time had run out.

  He sighed from his spot on the gears above me. “Isn’t it obvious, Mrs. Milner? It’s chalk! Yews thrive on chalk! Good day, now! Do come again!”

  I stepped through the open back door, which then promptly shut behind me. Mr. Cogs’s house rotated clockwise another notch before the lights inside winked out.

  I removed the clothespin from my nose, deposited it in the bin near the closed door, and then rubbed my nose.

  Once I finished massaging the blood back into my nostrils, I popped open the lid to the pocket watch and traced my finger around its ornate face.

  It yawned and stretched before winking up at me.

  Mr. Cogs had done it. He had really done it. I now had the ability to restart time—anywhere I chose to.

  I closed the box again.

  “I’m coming for you, Tippery.” I pocketed the gold box. “And this time, they’re all going to pay for leaving you stuck at that wretched, horrible tea party.”

  I do enjoy talking to myself.

  I find it very cathartic.

  But the delights of hearing my own voice wasn’t going to solve my current problem: I needed to find chalk and pay Time his tax, or having all the time in the world wasn’t going to make a minute of difference.

  The existence of chalk had fallen into legend for some time now.

  Oh, sure, a few stories that used to be told here and there had survived, on the Millywonk Jubilee, but for the most part, by then, everyone would be drunk on jingle-juice and tidder-winks, so it was hard to say if anyone telling those stories had ever actually encountered a piece of chalk to begin with.

  I’m told they’re extremely porous and quite the chatterboxes.

  Did I mention charming, too?

  As the legend goes, never get a piece of chalk started on a conversation. Never. They just love words—simply can’t shut up about them.

  “Talking someone to death” is a grave offense in Topside. It’s the only crime left still punishable by decapitation—something that the Queen of Hearts gleefully still enforces in that . . . that place.

  I’m gonna get you, you bulbous, fat, long-necked ostrich . . . you’ll see . . .

  Snap!

  Snap!

  Snap!

  Oh, I do apologize.

  I never know when even the whisper of a red-spell is going to take over.

  Really, I’m okay. Thank you so much for asking.

  Now, where was I?

  Ah yes, the absence of chalk.

  If there is any left in Topside—and that is a BIG if—the proper course of action is to coax it out of hiding with a chalkboard. Obviously.

  Well, what did you think I was going to say? Really.

  In order to do that, it’s going to mean a northerly trip to the tippy-tip-tip of Topside.

  It’s positively blinding up there—all that white.

  Bleh!

  It’s just too, too, too, too much.

  An overabundance of “much” will give you quite the headache.

  Take note, and do keep up, please.

  The River Thames runs right through Topside. It’s really quite aggravating. When Topside still had a mayor—yup, he’s gone, too—not that I miss him . . .

  Snippety fart.

  Anyways, when we had had a mayor, he gallantly had petitioned for the river to be rerouted through Belvedere, but the townsfolk there had thrown so many fits that they had to close down the surrounding roads, for days, in order to pick them all up.

  It was a dreadful mess.

  Fit-throwing is a nasty business.

  As it stands, there is only one bridge that will take one over to the northerly tippy-tip-tip of Topside. It’s a good thing I never go anywhere without my green Wellies on because I am going to need them if I am ever to see where I am going.

  Oh! And also, my tinting-shades.

  I love my tinting-shades. They’ll turn all the white to pink in a flash!

  I picked up a chalkboard from the stack that was left near the bridge.

  It’s a sick joke. Really, it is.

  It’s as if the chalk is taunting us with them, daring us to find them if we can.

  This time will be different, though. This time I will be triumphant.

  With determination, I briskly walked over the northerly bridge and into a wash of white. Momentarily blinded, I remembered my shades and affixed them to the bridge of my nose, pushing them up ever so slightly.

  Ahh, that’s better.

  While standing in the wash of pink, I cleared my voice three times to ensure the appropriate amount of clarity before reciting: “I read the red paper an hour into our meeting.”

  Nothing.

  Not a sound.

  Not a peep.

  Hmm . . . I’ll just have to work a touch harder.

  “The beech was strewn across the beach.”

  I listened again. Still nothing.

  They say that “patience is key”, but quite frankly, I have never encountered any key that was not in a rush to turn a lock. Therefore, I believe, it’s safe to agree that a key is not patient but rather misplaced most of the time. Double therefore, patience is not key but rather is more lock. Think about it; a lock sits around all day, just waiting for a key to show up. If that doesn’t take a lot of patience, I don’t know what does. In conclusion; patience is lock, and none of these ramblings really have anything to do with my current predicament, but here we are.

  As I was saying, as far as the chalk legends go, a piece of chalk cannot resist a good homophone. Personally, I am more of a fan of synonyms; after all, who wouldn’t enjoy, relish, or fancy expressing one’s opinion, sentiment, or viewpoint in a most particular, distinct, precise kind of way?

  Though, using antonyms in this particular situation, would be considered poor taste. From what I am told, chalk, in general, are not fond of opposites, preferring symmetry in all things.

  “I need to knead the bread.”

  In the distance, I heard a cracking noise.

  I tapped my fingernails lightly on the chalkboard. It would only be a matter of time now, and since time mattered very much to me these days, finding a piece of chalk couldn’t happen fast enough.

  “I ate at eight, knowing no knight this night could stop me.”

  “Oh, that was brilliant, Maddie.” I couldn’t help praising myself out loud for that one.

  The cracking noise was getting louder.

  A tiny voice piped up, “I sense that you . . .”

  “Don’t have two cents to rub together.” I finished the sentence while walking in circles, tapping on the chalkboard.

  It
wouldn’t be long now.

  Though it could be much shorter.

  A series of cracks and pops filled the air.

  Then a tiny voice recited, “I incite your insight to accomplish such a feat at your feet.”

  I looked down at my feet.

  Standing on the tip of my left green Wellie was indeed a piece of chalk.

  Success.

  Though a pink success at that.

  I didn’t dare take off my tinting-shades. Along with my curls, I am quite partial to my eyesight and do endeavor to keep them both.

  “How do you do?” I tilted the chalkboard down in greeting. Chalk cannot live outside the tippy-tip-tip of Topside without a chalkboard. It’s a known fact.

  “Quite well, thank you for asking,” the chalk squeaked and then jumped up onto the board. “Ahh, this is wonderful, sublime, marvelous.” He zoomed around on top of the chalkboard, leaving squiggly marks in his trail.

  “A lover of synonyms!” I was elated. I brought the chalkboard up to eye level for a closer look at him.

  “A lover of substitutes, equivalents, compatibles, one and the same!” The chalk chortled, “Fair maiden, tell me your name!”

  “Mrs. Maddie Milner,” I blushed. No one had captured my interest like so since Tippery. “But my heart belongs to another.” I was steadfast in my love for my Hatter. Not even this intriguing, beguiling, fascinating chalk made of the bones of sea creatures would tear me away from my one true love.

  “Alas, such is my lot in life.” The chalk sighed. “You may call me Chitter. I am the last of my kind. Sadly, my brother, Chatter, died during the fits.”

  “No!” I gasped. “Not in the fits—I am so deeply sorry, Chitter.”

  Chitter skated around the chalkboard before stopping right in front of my face. “I have lost my purpose in life, for without Chatter . . .”

  “There can be no Chitter.” I nodded in understanding.

  Poor Chitter, his situation was even graver than mine was, and mine was most definitely in dire straits, which is even worse than dire curves.

  Much, much, much worse.

  Mental note to self: mind the muchiness.

  “Chitter, I have a proposal for you.” I hoped that I sounded encouraging.

  “A proposal of marriage?” Chitter squeaked out.

  Okay, so my idea of encouragement needed work.

  I cleared my throat to note the importance of my forthcoming words. “Even better—I have for you a proposal of purpose.” Yes, I would be triumphant. “Chitter, I can give you your purpose back.”

  Chitter almost fell off the chalkboard in shock. “Fair Maddie Milner, how can this be?”

  I straightened up, bringing the chalkboard up with me as I rose to my full height. “I am a damsel in distress, Chitter.” I hoped to appeal to his chivalrous sensibilities. “I present thee with the ultimate homophone-synonym duo . . .”

  “Do not keep me in suspense, fair Maddie Milner!” Chitter peeped out.

  “I am in need of you to go see a yew”—I paused for effect— “so that I may pay a tax, a duty, a toll to get back into . . . into . . .” I said as I gritted my teeth, “into Wonderland.”

  I felt nauseous.

  Second mental note to self: no more squid crumpets when going on adventures or anything that remotely deals with that . . . that place.

  “Wonderland . . . ” Chitter repeated before falling over in deep contemplation.

  The thought of kidnapping him did cross my mind if he wasn’t agreeable, but I didn’t relish the idea that if it all went wrong, Chitter could quite possibly shatter into millions of unidentifiable pieces at my feet.

  Sigh . . .

  These were desperate times I was living in.

  Finally, Chitter righted himself up again while brushing off the white dust from his tiny hands. “I do proclaim that you have presented me with a most proper proposal of purpose packed with the possibility of prestige!”

  I was stupefied. Never had I been so wooed by mere words.

  “To paraphrase,” Chitter continued, “I’ll do it.”

  “I praise your prose, Chitter.” I bowed my head in reverence. “I promise you; your payment of purpose will be most pleasing to the yew.”

  “And you,” Chitter added coyly, “won’t you reconsider, fair Maddie? We would be pleasantly paired, you and I.”

  Outwardly, I shook my head.

  Inwardly, I considered the world of possibilities with this pink, pasty, perfect partner.

  No! I couldn’t.

  I was steadfast in my goal to bring Tippery home.

  Though, on the dark side . . . because if we were already on the bright side, then this entire exercise into finding a way into that . . . that place . . . would be all for naught and entirely moot.

  Therefore, on the dark side—if I was too late—if the Queen of Hearts had gotten to my Tippery first, then Chitter’s proposal presented new options for me to ponder.o

  I see you in here.

  Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking.

  There will be no judging in here.

  This is my head you’re living in, not yours.

  A gal can plot out a plan, and I don’t need your permission to do so!

  Now, shh! We have work to do.

  I was never a fan of graveyards - ever since Old Man Teether got caught for distilling his own moonshine.

  Nobody really knows how he died, but his ghost still hangs around.

  It’s disturbing.

  I mean, who wants to be seen in the last thing that they were wearing?

  The abandoned church makes it even worse. Actually, the whole southerly side of Topside is worse. Nobody goes there anymore, which is why I find Time to be so sly. Who would think to look for him down there?

  Me, that’s who. Maddie Milner.

  All right, so I had some help from Mr. Cogs, but really, this entire excursion has been my idea from the very start, so . . . dibs!

  Chitter, the chalk, had wisely agreed to keep quiet, knowing full well the laws of Topside. Though, I do believe that the magistrate would have a most difficult time finding where Chitter’s neck ended and his head began if said magistrate wanted to remove it for “talking someone to death.” Come to think of it, there were a few people that I would love to introduce Chitter to for such a magnificent purpose, but sadly, those conversations would have to wait for another day.

  Priorities!

  The graveyard was filled with gnarly yews which had upended some of the gravestones, adding to my general discomfort. Tippery better appreciate all this going-through that I was going through for him.

  Cautiously, and with a healthy dose of calculating thrown in for good measure, I sought out the largest, snarliest yew tree that I could find.

  I made a fist as if to knock, but then I paused, relishing the moment.

  This was it.

  I was finally going to come face-to-face with Time himself.

  What I really wanted to do was kick him in his knots while giving him a piece of my mind for leaving Tippery in that . . . that place . . . for all this time, but as my mother used to say, “You’ll catch more flies with honey but even more with a swatter.”

  Time definitely had a swatting coming to him, but I needed into . . . Wo . . . Wo . . . Wonderland . . . first.

  For the record, I hate that name, but I digress.

  One thing at a time. One thing at a time.

  With renewed vigor, I lightly rapped three times on the widest part of the yew’s trunk that I was presently standing in front of. If this wasn’t Time himself, then I just improperly woke up a random tree for no good reason.

  I’d be embarrassed, which would be an overly stated understatement.

  “Can . . . I . . . heellpp . . . you?” The bark on the trunk formed into a face.

  “Is that him? Is that the yew that you were talking about?” Chitter whispered from the ledge of the chalkboard that I had tucked under my arm.

  “Shhh!” I
hushed him.

  “If you’ve woken me up just to ‘shush’ me”—the face in the trunk scowled— “well, I can tell you how rude that is.”

  “He was snoring,” Chitter whispered again.

  “Shhh!” I repeated, but this time I held my finger over Chitter’s mouth just in case he had another outburst.

  Poor Chitter, it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t help himself. He is chalk, after all. Though, thoughts of snapping him in two crossed my mind.

  This was not the time to have a red-spell creep up!

  I had come too far.

  I would be triumphant.

  “If you are going to just stand there all day to ‘shush’ me, I would prefer that you leave.” The yew tree was getting temperamental.

  “My apologies for my companion’s outburst.” A little humility never hurt anyone. “I am hoping that I have the right yew.”

  “Which yew are you looking for?” The trunk-face yawned.

  “Time.” I held my breath. This was a defining moment.

  Defining moments are, by definition, quite decisive. There’s no room for wishy-washiness. Remember that.

  “Who are you to ask a yew if they are Time?”

  The trunk-face was not making this easy.

  “I’m Maddie Milner, and I’m here to pay my tax to go to . . . to . . . Wonderland.” Maybe if I said it out loud enough times, I would finally get past my loathing of that place.

  No, scratch that.

  There was no amount of vocalization that would make me get over that place.

  None.

  Zip.

  Zilch.

  Nada.

  Zero.

  I have a tendency to be very finite.

  “Are you paying attention to anything that I am saying?” The trunk-face scowled.

  Chitter bit my finger.

  “Ouch!” I rubbed away the chalky mark. “That wasn’t very nice!”

  “My patience is running out,” the trunk-face snipped. “Even if I was to indulge you and say that I was indeed Time, I doubt you have the proper tax needed to go to Wonderland.” He yawned again as his heavy, bark eyelids began to close. “Good day to you, and please don’t come back.”

  Chitter climbed up the chalkboard. “Hold me up!” he commanded.

  “Your charming personality is wearing off by the minute,” I groused. It takes some doing to get me to grouse, as I am not particularly fond of birds in the first place.