Through the Looking Glass Read online

  “Absolem? It is you, isn’t it?”

  The butterfly weaves and dips, and you follow it to the fireplace. You gaze up at the mirror and your mouth drops open.

  The mirror is changing! The glass fogs, then swirls, turning into a bright silvery mist. You watch, transfixed, as the butterfly flies into the looking glass. A moment later, it’s flying in the room you see reflected in the mirror.

  You quickly check the room behind you. No butterfly. Your head whips back around. The butterfly continues its graceful arcs in the looking glass. The only explanation is that it really did fly through the mirror!

  You take a step closer. “Curious,” you murmur.

  You reach out to touch the surface of the mirror. Your hand passes through it as if it were a pool of water. You yank your hand away. The sensation was so peculiar! You rub your hand, but it feels completely normal.

  You hear heavy footsteps outside the door. The knob turns, but the lock holds. “Bring the key!” someone shouts.

  You step onto the fireguard, then climb up onto the oversize mantelpiece. Kneeling, you touch the mirror again. Once more the surface shimmers as your hand breaks through. A key jangles in the door. You glance back at it, wondering what you should do.

  WHY SHOULD YOU ALLOW THEM TO RUN YOU OFF? YOU CAN ALWAYS GO THROUGH THE MIRROR AFTER YOU’VE DEALT WITH THIS ANGRY MOB. GO HERE.

  YOU’RE OUTTA HERE! GO HERE AND TRAVEL THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS.

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  YOU PUSH your hand, then the rest of your body, through the looking glass. You emerge on the other side and gaze around in wonder.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” you say.

  You survey the room. It is the mirror image of the one you were just in. You turn to the mantel clock beside you. It now has an old man’s face, which grins at you.

  “Hello again, Alice!” it says.

  The pictures on either side of the mirror come to life. “You shouldn’t be here!” the stern woman in one oil painting says. “You’re too old for this nonsense!”

  “Oh, hush,” says the serious-looking man in the other painting. “One is never too old!”

  You leap down from the mantel onto a table. Chess pieces hop around and brush against a very fat egg-man perched on the edge.

  “Not again!” he cries as he wobbles. “Uh…uh…oooooh!”

  He teeters, then falls to the floor and shatters. You wince,

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  YOU’RE NOT going to let that mob scare you. You’re going to stand up to them! The door is flung open, and you are roughly pulled down from the mantel by two footmen.

  “He’s the one you should be after!” you cry, pointing at Hamish as the footmen drag you toward the waiting policemen. “He is guilty of butterfly cruelty!”

  You’re taken to the loony bin. There you spend the rest of your life painting pictures of butterflies. Oh, well. It didn’t turn out that great for you in…

  THE END.

  YIKES. ESCAPE THE MADHOUSE BY RETURNING TO THE BEGINNING AND STARTING OVER.

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  gazing down at the familiar fellow. If you recall correctly, that’s Humpty Dumpty. And he just had another great fall.

  From the floor, Humpty tries to make his unsmashed face look stoic. “Don’t worry, dear!” he says. “I really ought to stop sitting on walls.”

  The white king from the chess set rallies. “All my horses, all my men,” he orders, “to the rescue!”

  The chess pieces jump into action. Pawns create lines down the table legs. The white knight slides down the fireplace poker leaning against the table. They reach the floor and attempt to piece Humpty together.

  “Sorry! I’m so sorry!” you say, scrambling to the floor. You’d like to help but you have no idea how.

  “Clumsy as ever,” the blue butterfly says, landing on the carpet next to you. “I thought you’d never get the idea.”

  You’d recognize that superior tone anywhere.

  “Oh, Absolem!” you exclaim. “It is you!” You’d hug him, but you fear that in his butterfly form he may be too delicate.

  “You’ve been gone too long, Alice,” he says. “Friends cannot be neglected.”

  That’s a somewhat ominous greeting, you think. “Has something happened?”

  “All will become clear in the fullness of time. For now, hurry. Follow that passage.”

  You’d forgotten how cryptic these Underland creatures can be. But you know Absolem well enough to do as he says. You hurry to the door. As you turn the knob, Absolem adds, “Oh, and do mind your step.” You glance back at him, puzzled, as you go through the door.

  The next thing you know, you’re falling! You scream as you plummet down, down, down through pink clouds.

  You land in a floral arrangement—the centerpiece of a huge table. This must be your day for ruining dinner parties.

  Staring at you from around the table are your old Underland friends: the chubby twins, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, clad in their usual matching striped outfits; the bloodhound, Bayard; McTwisp, the White Rabbit, looking dapper as ever in a dark blue coat and a pristine white shirt; the sleepy Dormouse, Mallymkun; and the wacky March Hare, Thackery Earwicket, raffish and rumpled.

  It must be a very special occasion, because Mirana, the White Queen herself, sits at the head of the table, her white hair and white gown practically glowing in the sunlight. You notice the enormous Bandersnatch snoozing in the shade of one of the blossoming trees. You’re in the White Queen’s garden at Marmoreal Castle!

  As you struggle to untangle yourself from the flower arrangement, you notice sketches of the Hatter covering the table. They’re scribbled with notes such as “Best place to tickle,” with an arrow leading to an X under his arm. Several drawings of the Hatter have areas circled and list “symptoms” to look out for. Puzzled, you look around at the group. They all wear serious expressions.

  “Have I come at a bad time?” you ask.

  “We were afraid you weren’t coming at all,” Mirana says.

  “Whatever’s the matter?” you ask.

  “The Hatter’s the matter,” McTwisp replies, his white whiskers twitching.

  “Or the matter of the Hatter?” one of the twins—Tweedledum?—says.

  “The former,” the other twin—Tweedledee?—responds.

  “The latter!” Tweedledum insists.

  “Tweedles!” Mirana scolds.

  The Tweedles look chastened. Then, as one, they state very gravely, “He’s mad.”

  Your forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Hatter? Yes, I know. That’s what makes him so…him.”

  “But worse,” Tweedledum says. “Denies himself laughter.”

  “Grows darker,” Tweedledee adds. “Less dafter.”

  A toothy smile appears, floating above the table. Gradually, the rest of Chessur, the Cheshire Cat, appears. He gazes down at the sketches on the table.

  “No scheme of ours can raise any sort of smile,” he says. Although his grin is just as large as usual, he sounds sad. “We’d rather hoped you might help us save him.”

  “Save him? What happened?” you ask.

  Somber glances are exchanged around the table. Finally, Mirana gives Bayard a tiny nod.

  “We were playing our usual game of fetch,” Bayard explains in his deep, rumbly voice. “I’d just tossed the stick and Hatter went chasing after it.”

  You smile as you picture the large bloodhound throwing the stick and Hatter bounding after it as
if he were the dog.

  “Hatter was perfectly Hatterish, until…” Bayard sighs.

  “Until…” you press.

  Bayard gathers himself and continues. “When Hatter snuffled around on the ground to pick up the stick in his mouth, he found something. Something that changed everything.” He stops again, as if he can’t bear to go on.

  “What did he find?” you ask.

  “Tell her,” Thackery urges.

  “A paper hat,” Bayard says. “A teeny, tiny, itty-bitty blue hat.”

  “It may have been small,” McTwisp says, “but its effect was huge.”

  “That was the start of it,” Bayard says.

  “Of what?” you ask. You still don’t understand what the problem is, though it’s clear something is seriously wrong.

  “The grand decline,” Mirana tells you.

  “He’s convinced his family are still alive,” McTwisp says.

  “Which has made him deadly serious,” Bayard explains.

  “Terminally sane,” Tweedledum says sadly.

  They are silent, contemplating this terrible fate. Tweedledee pulls out a handkerchief and blows his nose loudly. Then he does the same for his twin.

  “We’ve tried everything,” Bayard says. He lets out a mournful howl as the rest of the group cast down their eyes.

  “And then we thought of you,” Mirana says. She looks at you hopefully.

  You nod slowly. They are counting on you. You won’t let them down.

  You push yourself up from the table. “Where is he?”

  The group accompanies you to Hatter’s hat-shaped house.

  “It’s best you see him alone,” Mirana says. “No telling what he’ll do if he sees us.”

  You nod, then hurry up to the door. You’re about to knock when it flies open.

  Hatter stands in the doorway, staring at you. He barely resembles the Hatter you knew. His usually wild orange hair is now parted severely in the middle and combed down flat. He wears a neatly pressed dark gray suit. He looks normal. It’s awful.

  “Yes?” he says. He obviously doesn’t recognize you.

  “Hatter? It’s me…Alice!” You reach out to hug him, but he shrinks away. Your arms drop to your sides.

  “I’m not taking on any new heads now,” he says. “Good day.”

  He slams the door.

  Well, you can’t just give up. You’re going in whether he wants you to or not! You march into the hat-shaped house.

  Hatter sits at a very organized desk, writing in a ledger. He looks up, surprised. “Miss, please. If you want a hat—”

  “I don’t want a hat. I’ve come to see you. I want to talk to you!”

  “Well, if you don’t want a hat, I’m quite certain I can’t help you.” He returns to scribbling in the ledger.

  “But you can help,” you insist, crossing to him and planting yourself beside his desk. “I just need you to be you again. Everyone does.”

  He slides his chair back a few inches away from you. “Don’t bring any funny ideas here,” he says, waggling a scolding finger at you. “This is a serious place.”

  The Hatter heads into a back room, muttering, “Highly serious man, my father. Very serious indeed.”

  You have to get through to him! You follow him into the back room.

  A large family portrait hangs above the fireplace. In the center is a stern man in black. You look from the portrait to the Hatter. The man in the painting looks a lot like Hatter does right now. The hairstyle, the glasses, the suit. The serious expression. Dates beneath the portrait imply the people in it are deceased.

  You nod toward the portrait. “Was that…?”

  Hatter gazes sadly up at the picture. “My family. Lost for many years. But now they’re coming home!”

  You frown. “But how do you know they’re alive?”

  The Hatter spins around and holds out a tiny blue paper hat. “I found this! Proof! A sign! A message! They’re alive!”

  “You yourself told me your family died,” you say gently. “Long ago….”

  The Hatter paces, agitated. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re trying to do, but my family is not gallsackering dead!”

  He points toward the door. “Get out!” he shouts. The effort of shouting almost topples him over. You move to help, but he waves you away.

  Not wanting to upset him further, you leave. For a moment you stand staring at the door, stunned. You can’t believe how changed he is. You turn and see your friends waiting, hopeful expressions on their faces.

  You sigh. “He doesn’t even know who I am….”

  Your friends’ heads fall. You walk along the path, the others joining you in a sad procession back to Marmoreal Castle.

  “It’s as we feared,” Mirana says. “He’s caught a terrible case of the Forgettingfulness.”

  “The Forgettingfulness?” you repeat. This isn’t any kind of illness you’ve ever heard of.

  “It’s when things go in one ear…” Tweedledum begins.

  “…and out the other two,” Tweedledee finishes.

  “It all goes back to the Horunvendush Day,” Mirana explains.

  “Horrible Horunvendush Day,” the twins intone.

  “It was supposed to be a lovely day at the fairgrounds,” McTwisp says. “But then…” He shudders, making his whiskers tremble.

  You frown. “But I don’t understand why the Hatter—”

  Mirana puts a hand on your arm, cutting you off. “Hatter has always blamed himself for his family’s death,” she explains. “We were all at the Horunvendush Fair. It was a lovely day. Until the Jabberwocky attacked.” Her voice trembles with the memory. “The Hatter brought me to safety, but he never saw his family again. And he has lived ever since with the weight of their loss.”

  A sad smile hovers near your shoulder. “So you see, dear Alice,” Chessur says, materializing completely, “like a tree, our present problem has its roots in the past.”

  You nod slowly. “I see.” You bite your lip, frowning. “I think….”

  “Which is why we were hoping you might go back into the past,” Mirana says, “and save the Hatter’s family.”

  You stare at Mirana. “Go back in time? But how?”

  “With the Chronosphere,” Chessur says.

  “I’m sorry, the Chrono-what?” you ask.

  “The Chronosphere,” Mirana says. “It’s the heart that powers time. Legend has it, it lets one travel across the Ocean of Time.”

  “But why me?” you ask.

  “None of us can use it, because we’ve already been in the past,” Mirana says. “That past, anyway. And if your past self sees your future self…” Her voice trails off.

  “Yes? What happens if your past self sees your future self?” you ask.

  “Well, no one actually knows,” Mirana confesses. “But it’s catastrophic.”

  You shake your head. “This sounds dangerous. And complicated.”

  “It’s not impossible, merely unpossible,” Chessur says.

  “Will you do it?” Mirana asks.

  It’s a completely crazy plan. You seriously doubt it can work—especially since you barely understand it! They’re waiting for your decision.

  IF YOU AGREE TO ATTEMPT TO USE THE CHRONOSPHERE TO GO BACK IN TIME, GO HERE.

  IF YOU THINK THERE MUST BE A BETTER, LESS RISKY WAY, GO HERE.

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  YOU SHAKE your head. “It is just too dangerous,” you say. “Too much of a risk. For everyone. What if I change something that should never be changed? It could be a disaster!”

  They put on brave faces, but you can see they’re disappointed. “There must be another way to help Hatter,” you insist.

  You return to the hat-shaped house, formulating a plan. You’ll jolly him into being himself again. In fact, you’ll act exactly as you ima
gine the Hatter himself would. That should get him to remember what he’s really like!

  You enter singing one of his favorite songs. “Twinkle, twinkle, little bat,” you belt out. “How I wonder what you’re at.”

  “Do stop that,” the Hatter says. “Singing is a very frivolous activity.”

  Oh, dear. You’re going to have to try harder. The Hatter’s favorite activities are always frivolous! He must be very sick indeed!

  Rhymes! He always used to enjoy poetry. You recite:

  “The sun was shining on the sea, shining with all its might.

  It did its very best to make the billows smooth and bright.

  And this was odd, because it was the middle of the night.”

  No reaction. You drum your fingers on his table, trying to think of something else that will get him to re-Hatter.

  Word play! The Hatter loves a good pun. You lean forward, a mischievous twinkle in your eye. “I was speaking with a fish the other day. He told me he was going on a journey, and I asked, ‘With what porpoise?’”

  Hatter stares at you. “Don’t you mean ‘purpose’?”

  Hmmm…This is going to take some more energy. You start striding around the room, spewing out more and more silly thoughts: “Once a mouse told me a very dry story. He had a very a long tail, indeed.

  “Did you know that the world spins on its axes? Hopefully, they’re not terribly sharp.

  “Have you ever seen a sailor’s rope? Maybe knot…”

  “Must you be so…mad?” the Hatter interrupts. “It’s all so silly. Time-wasting. Irritating, even.”

  You can’t believe it. Other than annoying Hatter, your antics have no effect…

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