Mad About the Hatter (21 page)

It helped somewhat, that everyone else was having the same trouble as Hatter. The Red Guards, for example, never the most graceful of creatures to begin with, were falling all over one another. Even Leonard had to pick his way slowly and carefully over the path to avoid ending up in an undignified, red-velvet-and-ermine-trimmed heap. The trouble was that the path kept changing with little or no warning. Looking ahead at it to see where you were going did you no good, because by the time your feet reached the part of the path your eyes had seen, the road altered itself. Potholes appeared and disappeared; stones moved, rocking and rolling beneath your feet, throwing you off balance.

Henry, however, seemed to be rather enjoying himself. He stepped from one craggy rock to another, lithely jumping over the deeper cracks in the earth like a blond gazelle. Even when a stone or pothole threw him off-center and he staggered, he grinned and went on. Hatter smiled to himself, admiring Henry’s energetic moves, and his slender but clearly well-muscled form… particularly the latter.

Henry’s body wasn’t overly bulky, like those of the Red Guards, but slim and wiry, yet Hatter knew the strength that lay in Henry’s trim physique. He’d felt those hard muscles surround him in a hug, and remembered the whole of Henry’s body pressed up against his own.

He’d never been gladder than when Henry agreed to accompany them back to Wonderland. It wasn’t because Hatter felt their cause a lost one without Henry’s aid—although Hatter was glad for help—but because he didn’t want to say good-bye to Henry. He wanted more time with Henry, more opportunities to ponder how he felt about Henry and vice versa, and why it was so difficult to comprehend them never being together again.

Hatter was an intelligent, experienced man, and he had an inkling of an idea, outrageous though it might be. He suspected he wasn’t just
attracted
to Henry, but that somewhere during their travels together he’d actually begun to fall in
love
with Boy Alice.

At least, he
thought
it might be love. For all he knew, what he was feeling
could
be the onset of some strange and lethal swamp fever, something picked up during their sloggy trek through the Neverglades.

Is this what being in love feels like?
Hatter wondered. He really had no experience in the matter, nothing to gauge it by. Did love make one feel like he had a warm blanket wrapped around him on a cold winter’s day, or like being filled from his toes to his hairline with bubbly juice, tickly and effervescent? Did being in love make one feel as though his very next breath depended on the person he loved being near them?

Moreover, was it even
possible
for him to love? Could it be true? Him, the Mad Hatter of Wonderland, Master Magician, cursed by Time, Tea Pourer Extraordinaire, and most recently Right Hand to the Red King? Could it be possible he’d actually, finally fallen in love? He never had before, he was quite sure of it. Then why now? Why Henry?

Equally importantly, if not more so, was the question of whether Henry had developed feelings for Hatter in return?

Hatter suddenly gasped, and stepped into an especially deep pothole, nearly falling over as another question occurred to him.
If Henry doesn’t love me back, what then? What if what I suspect I feel for Henry is only one-sided?
Hatter chewed his bottom lip as a feeling much like ice-cold pain gripped his heart.
What will I do then?

The mere thought of living without Henry made his stomach feel as though it had taken a long, fast fall with a sudden stop at the end. There were options, of course, but none of them were the least bit appealing. Love potions were available if one knew where to inquire, but they were notoriously unreliable. He’d hate to use one and end up being the love interest of a Jubjub bird or Walrus, or some other, equally appalling creature.

Anyway, he didn’t much like the feeling of forcing Henry to love him.
It would be as if I were obliged to eat an entire bakery full of cakes,
he mused.
Oh, the first few bites might be sweet, but by the end, it’s likely I’d be barfing chocolate treacle cheesecake on my shoes.

What should he do? What should he say? Should he risk confessing his feelings to Henry, or keep them to himself? They were fast approaching the last leg of their journey together. Soon they’d be at the Red Castle and, for better or worse, a showdown with the Red Queen. If the confrontation ended favorably for them, and their heads didn’t roll, what then? What if Henry wanted to return to his own world?

Hatter’s eyes opened wide at the next thought to enter his mind, close on the heels of the last.
What if Henry left me behind in Wonderland, and I was never to know if what I feel really is love, or if Henry returns those feelings in kind?

Hatter supposed he could follow Henry back to Alice’s house through the looking glass, but what then? If Henry didn’t want Hatter, he’d be no better off than he was here. Worse, for he’d be in a strange world he didn’t understand, all alone.
I might as well allow one of those rolling automobile monsters to gobble me up and be done with it, then.
He swallowed hard, not relishing a future spent rolling around in the belly of a metal beast.

It was at times like this he wished his life were a book just so he could flip to the last page to see how it all turned out.

T
HE
ROAD
to Ruin soon showed how it had earned its name, and as it turned out, rocks and potholes were the least of it.

The vegetation lining both sides of the path began to thin, replaced by structures of all kinds, built with a variety of materials. Henry spotted quaint cottages more suited to a seashore community than a trail in the middle of nowhere, gabled Victorians dripping with gingerbread trim, squat, unpainted cinderblock rectangles with casement windows, and tall, multifloor high-rises. The spaces between them were filled with rough log cabins, tiny clapboard schoolhouses, wigwams, igloos, thatched huts, and some for which Henry had no name. The buildings were as different from one another as snowflakes, with one element alone in common—they were, to a one, utterly destroyed.

No window was intact. Instead, jagged pieces of glass glinted like shiny daggers in the sun. No painted surface was unscratched or not defaced by graffiti. One particularly colorful tag read, “Time Flies or Dies but Never Sits Still.” Henry glanced at Hatter sideways, wondering if Hatter had had a hand in painting that one.

Henry didn’t see a single door that wasn’t hanging crookedly on its hinges, or missing entirely. Walls boasted large and small holes; front stoops sagged and were missing steps. The roofs, both flat and pitched, boasted bald spots where shingles or tiles had been ripped away, and large holes had been punched through them. The landscaping around the structures was either wild and unkempt or browning and half-dead, often growing into broken windows or gaping doorways, as if the earth were trying to move in, the newest tenant in a dying village.

As they passed, Henry could see small, faded signs in front of some of the buildings, most with letters scratched out: Dish and Spoon Bak ry; Jack Sprat’s Restaur nt; Miss Muffet’s Millinery; Mother Hubbard’s Bed and Breakf st; Thr e Bl nd Mice Bookstore; and Mary Contrary’s Dairy.

“Welcome to Ruin,” Hatter said. He gestured toward the crumbling buildings. “Horribly depressing place, and they serve an amazingly good fig pudding.”

Henry gaped slack-jawed at him. “Do you mean to tell me people
live
here? By
choice?
Why don’t they fix the place up?

“Fix it up!” Hatter looked shocked. “For goodness sakes, why would they want to do that after they’d spent all their time and funds fixing it down so nicely?”

Henry turned back toward the ruins. “You mean they did this on purpose? They like it this way?”

“Of course. Ruin has the best wreckage in Wonderland. You won’t find better anywhere, I promise. Why, they were voted ‘Best Rubble’ by
The Wonderland Architect
for twenty years straight.” Hatter buffed his fingernails against his lapel and grinned. “I, of course, have had the pleasure of experiencing the awful ambiance several times. Not everyone can say that, eh?”

“Hatter is right, Henry. Only the best people vacation in the worst spot in Wonderland,” Leonard put in. “I haven’t even stayed there.” He sighed. “Perhaps one day, when our present tribulations are at an end and I can manage a holiday.”

Henry didn’t understand it all, but shrugged and chalked it up to something only a native from Wonderland could appreciate. It didn’t really bother him all that much. After all, he didn’t half understand anything else in this weird world, either. Wonderland almost seemed
designed
to be strange. If so, it succeeded splendidly, in his opinion.

As they continued down the path, he noticed each ruin was consistently dilapidated and in appropriate states of distress. Henry also spotted people moving between the buildings. He wasn’t surprised at all to discover the residents of Ruin looked just as seedy and neglected as their homes. Everyone was dressed in shades of dusty gray, their pants, coats, dresses, and aprons suitably shabby and patched, shoes scuffed and worn. No one smiled or laughed; everyone seemed to wear identical forlorn expressions on their faces, even the children.

Ruin seemed exactly as wretched a place to live in as its appearance implied. He wondered why anyone would choose to live in Ruin, then realized that perhaps their residence wasn’t by choice. The Queen, by reputation, was a ruthless sort. Was it possible she forced these people to live here?

Henry was more impressed by Ruin than he’d expected to be. It seemed as if it took a great deal of dedication for an entire village to be so diverse, yet so decrepit. As he thought about it, he wondered if he could stand living there. Certainly not for any prolonged length of time. Think of it! It would require a tremendous amount of work to maintain such a place. All the buildings, the tall, the short, the long, and the squat, must be tended carefully, making sure all surfaces were well spread with dust, and spiderwebs artfully draped in each corner. Each one must be architecturally sound so as not to collapse on their residents’ heads, yet appear as fragile as a sheet of tissue paper in a windstorm. Every garden would need to be planted each season with crabgrass and bindii prickles, and carefully pruned of any pretty wildflowers that might take root. Trees must be festooned with dripping shrouds of Spanish moss and swathed with kudzu vines. Any newly unfurling leaf must be plucked and discarded.

And that was only to keep up the outward appearance of the city. The inhabitants would require every bit as much work.

All new clothes would need to be beaten and pounded, washed and rewashed until they were suitably faded and frayed. Each pair of new shoes and boots, scuffed until the shine wore off, and new tennis shoes beaten until the canvas split and shredded.

Personal hygiene required constant attention as well, he supposed. Hair must never be uniformly trimmed, but left to grow wild and unkempt no matter how much the wind whipped it into greasy tangles. Beards and mustaches must be allowed to grow out, no matter how much they itched. Fingernails would either grow wild or be bitten, and must be consistently dirty at all times. Smiles must never be white, but yellowed and preferably missing a tooth here and there.

It really was exhausting just thinking about it, not to mention wholly depressing.

Henry tugged on Hatter’s elbow. “Why do these people live here? They look positively miserable.”

Hatter glanced at the town, and nodded. “I suppose they are. I know people who are born in Ruin often fail to leave it, and some who aren’t born to Ruin sometimes end up living there. There are those who claim Ruin is necessary so other parts of Wonderland can flourish. Their thinking is, without the wretched poor, how can there be the privileged others? Who would they compare themselves to without those who live in Ruin?”

Henry frowned, thinking about it. It didn’t sound right to him. “Do you believe that?”

Hatter seemed to ponder a moment before answering. “I think the ones who
say
it believe it. Trouble is, those who believe it are among the rich and powerful, like the Red Queen, and we know how difficult it is to oppose
her
.”

As Henry pondered Hatter’s words, wondering whether Ruin might benefit if they succeeded in overthrowing the Queen, the road took them past the city limits. Forest again took possession of the sides of the road as they left the city behind. As they walked, he feared he must have nodded off on his feet, because something interesting—and slightly disturbing—had happened without his notice.

Everything, from the trees to the birds that flitted between them, from the shrubs to the shy forest creatures peeking out from beneath their branches,
everything
had turned to a single color.

Red. Everything was red. Even the sky and clouds had taken on a pinkish cast. It was as if some mad artist had painted the entire world in shades of crimson.

They had reached the Red Queen’s territory, and rising in the distance, past a few gently rolling red hills, bloodred against the pink sky, stood the formidable silhouette of the Red Castle.

L
EONARD
HELD
his hand up, signaling the rest of them to stop. The rear Red Guard didn’t get the memo soon enough. He bumped into the guard in front of him, and that guard fell forward onto the next, until the entire squadron tumbled like dominoes. Their chain mail and armor seemed to tangle, cementing them together. Leonard sighed and rolled his eyes.

“We need to go over our plan before advancing on the Red Castle.” He turned to Hatter. “What’s the plan?”