"Alice ? Alice ?"
The voice was moving, mellow, and disturbing. It murmured in the young girl's ears, sliding through the steams of her sleepy brain, inducing golden thoughts of dreamy lands of lore. It evinced recumbent suns and waltzing moons, earl grey sachets and blue, crescent ribbons that sneaked up through the roots of gigantic, poetry-whispering baobabs. A ladder was craved in an oak's bark that embroiders tiny, delicate turtles of an emerald mud. A familiar button of fur was escaping through a thick hedge with grumbling noises of high contrariety. Low-pitched, the voice of a hedgehog was complaining the brusque assault of a golf club, belonging of a certain queen.
Though her sleep, Alice asked mischievously, for she was sure of the answer, and besides, she thought herself dreaming absurdly again: "Was there any chance for the dormouse to finish his song before being forcefully plunged into the teapot?"
Only the rustle of leaves retaliated, and the whooshing sound of a piano falling down into a pit (she immediately recognized the dissonant clusters of her pristine memories, and could tell that was the same pitch-black Bösendorfer, with its feet in the form of a lion's paws, the very companion of her first fall in the rabbit's den). "Cheshire cat?" she tried to call next, believing that the quirky creature was the instigator of this sudden grip on her dreams. Of all times she suspected the sole deity of this land was him – being able to appear and disappear on a whim was a power only gods possess – so that was her naïve belief. Her question was muffled by the thunder cracking in a damp sky, scattering stars and wedding invitations. Wedding? Which wedding? Yes, of course, that was hers, and the Baronet was expecting her to answer tomorrow, but she could not possibly say yes, he made her go banana, with his freckles and red hair and squeaking voice. But the money? She would make a sale if she accepted him: dozen and dozen book shelves, wide park and rose bushes, which she would force him to repaint in red. Red was the new black. Alice, more now than before, needed a little bit of dark, a small unction, short and sweet, that would put her off the beaten track of Victorian conventions. A gesture of faith would come in handy now, perhaps under the form of an eat-me biscuit, or a nightly stroll in the garden.
(Was she thinking all that? No, she did not even know what the meaning of "conventions" was. Had she felt paranoid – please, could you repeat that? That was not her words! -, she would have claimed someone was holding sway on her mind. Though she pretended, at a younger age, that she was two people, she was sure she had grown up since – but there were some remnants of her childhood that refused to be erased, like her recurring dreams about this queer, old and new altogether, thirst-for-something-new-inducing country that her tantalized young self-named Wonderland. Her identity was collapsing, the very feeling of being eloped to an Unknown she paradoxically knew by heart. The Queen was expecting her, the voice still continues to murmur; the chess board was set, the pawns were moving. She only had to pick up her side, and the fun would take up without further ado, without the internal conflicts of choosing or not choosing a dress, or a husband, or a way of living. Why was she lingering, whereas a land of pleasures was within her grasp?)
And suddenly, there she was: falling into the deep well, far away of the ridiculous etiquette of the tea parties and obnoxious social protocol that were the staples of her adult life. Soon she would be debating with pedantic dodos the meaning of life and drafting down quadrilles with griffins. Yes, she had missed these eccentricities.
She has landed on a stiff mixture of rock and solid dirt, and small, sniffing things were scattering around her golden locks. The day was dark, as she had not left her world of pillows and drawn curtains. A gloomy sun was lighting up a small corner of grass next to her, where a cerulean mushroom was growing so quickly she could hear the sound of the filaments trying to reach the sky. Well, something was noticeable at last. Alice leaned over her elbows and scrutinized the curious hat that covered the top of the agaric. Its furious colours reminded her of the most goony finery of the Royal Ascott Race.
"You shouldn't peek at crescent adulthood, it is very offensive!" The cranky tirade of an invisible speaker was stemming from the lowest part of the mushroom, but Alice recognized it immediately:
"Absalon! Is that you, my sweet, dear caterpillar?" Naturally, the creature did not like the intimacy Alice was imposing on it, for it spit out a grumble that resembled an insulting put-down. With a more subservient tone, Alice asked:
"I am deeply sorry if I offended you. May I take a sit near your Majesty, and engage in an amiable chatter?" The first part of the answer distinctly voiced discontent, on the grounds that Alice was being sarcastic, but the final sentence was surprisingly in tune with the social graces, almost as the insect had spent most of his life teaching toddlers in a Victorian nursery:
"Girl, you have work to do. Was there another Jabberwocky, I would have gladly sent you in its claws. Unfortunately, there is no such feat to accomplish. What lies ahead is different, and you will certainly not like it."
"But could you tell me the exact nature of this task, Mr. Absalom? I am not familiar with the concept of shooting in the dark."
"You have indeed grown up (he puffed in a cough)…into the ghastlier species. However, your new-fangled form could be redeemed, but you will have to undergo a quite (inhalation, followed by another strangulated noise)… significant metamorphosis." Absalom was gradually disappearing into the heavy bluish clouds of its pipe, and still, Alice had no clue of what this gobbledygook meant.
"I guess I will have to discover by myself things I am supposed to know, since these fantasies pertain to my mind", she sighted, "but really, these creatures are not helpful at all. How can I find a way if I don't even understand what the purpose of my search is?"
She was fighting her way through massive bushes of passive-aggressive laurels ("She hurts usss! Weeeeed out of her!"), when she heard a high-pitched crackle coming from behind her back. Accustomed as she was to the oddities of this land, she did not turn right ahead to check up the sonorous animal, whatever it was. Had she still been a child, she would have taken to her heels and shrieked loudly, but representing the bastion of adulthood in this world, she stayed upright and tense, hoping she would avoid being caught off-guard. Her fright urged her to close her eyes. A swarm of voices surrounded her, whispering numerous tales of nightmares and murder; painting marks on her mental wall; whizzing like wasps around her head; threatening to stab her to death. "Off with her!", the mutters insisted, and the rational, superego part in Alice could not help thinking that was a perfectly legitimate proposition, for she was an intruder, a trespasser, worse, a frightened girl who was so not up to par that she had abandoned her former existence and even renounced to the renaissance that Wonderland put out to her, too many years ago, when this rotten, bromidic age had not come yet, when she was still suspended in the disbelief of an upsetting but fascinating childhood.
Then the voices ceased. A clock somewhere struck thirteen, and Westminster's bells echoed the monotonous cry of time past. A flutter of wings stroked her face. She released the seal of her eyelids gingerly, as she had not committed the act of lifting up the shadowy veil for a protracted time.
The Cheshire cat was grinning upon her. He was mounting the most bizarre steed Alice had ever witnessed: an outrageously flamboyant dragonfly with the head of a dappled mare. The spurs were glinting with a silvery moonlight, and the boots of the cat, perfectly adjusted, were of polished dark leather.
"You are looking very sharp, Mr. Pussy", Alice said, cautious that her astonishment remained invisible. After all, these were Wonderland inhabitants, and you could never predict their morality. Reversion was expected, and the cat could have been transmogrified into an enemy.
"Thank you. I am glad your manners haven't changed at all. Politeness won't be necessary, however, if you decide to stay." His smile widened. "Have you already made up your mind? It would have been time."
"Are you trying to swindle me, Mr. Cat?" Alice asked suspiciously, "You know why I have come back to my world. All these visions of yours, if delighting, were smoke screens on a reality I couldn't bear at the time." And her sensitive spirit went on furthering her point: "First, the seemingly order was only a make-believe: that was chaos, and you refrained from warning me of that. The hedgehog was a poor little martyrized creature; the flamingo was not the epitome of gentleness: it bit my thumb. Secondly, the propensity of everyone to tell me what to do got on my nerves. Only governesses are bossy in dreams; plus, they don't threaten you to chop your head off. That was the worst experience of my life by far, Cat, and have in mind that I am living in Victorian England.
Thirdly, you showed me violence. All my children books hit the brakes on the subject of violence. They claimed that it was a catharsis favoured by bad people, and that civilized beings should not indulge in it. I would have loved seeing the lion and the unicorn sharing a pie, and not bickering over it. Besides, it went so cold that it spoiled all the flavour." Alice got her breath back for the first time since the beginning of her ex-tempore speech.
The Cheshire Cat was curling his lips – muzzle. (The word must be accurate. Alice had the particular feeling that language was the only guard in the fortress of her common sense. Had it failed her, the lift bridge would fall down for the opponents to enter). They stared at each other. Alice forbade her to move one single toe (though she felt they were quivering without her consent: another side effect of this impossible country).
"Given your old age", the Cat eventually answered, "I would not pretend that I'm getting a kick out of your pig-headedness." (How the creature's language evolved, since Alice's last visit! That was modernization!). "I am, however, irrepressibly sad of your decision. You shall wait in the Mad Hatter's bower, until your hair withers and your gown frays". Had it been so widened already, his smile would have stretched up to the top of the trees. "But a raven stays a writing desk. I wish you good luck, Alice! Maybe you'll find it useful later on."
Alice could not weed off her habits of well-behaved child. Besides, the Cat was an ally, and they got on well with each other at a time. She was still liable to show a minimal curtsey, especially if the subtext showed some distinct threats (and cats were cunning, and knowing; Dinah had proven her many times, when she emptied a milk saucer, then pretended that her kitten had swallowed it gluttonously). But her schoolgirl imagination might play tricks on her: her amiable furry friend was nothing more than authoritatively helpful.
The Cat was licking his lip- or whatever he would call it- with what resembled anticipated delectation. It took no more than a few seconds to Alice, exactly the time the Cat proof-licked his moustaches, to decide to turn her back and leave off the damped ground of these illicit propositions. Had she wanted to prick up her ears, surely she would have taken heed of the soft, growling meow cried out by an evanescent smile.
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During her long, but curiously not strenuous journey to a destination she did not desire to know, Alice met several original characters. Her diary does not mention these encounters; only the margins show some abbreviations to older texts. AIW, ATLOG, are distinctly legible; the reader must understand these ciphers as references to her prior adventures. By logical inference, we can deduce that the young author did not feel the need to narrate every twist or turn of events that occurred to her. Humphy-Dumpy was certainly on her way, but the bottom line of their conversation must not have undergone transformation since the last time they saw each other. Nonetheless, scholastic game is such a feature of Wonderland that the readers-children (number aplenty) had grown accustomed to the mind contests – and tired too. The narrative thread is sometime languid, Alice falling asleep more often since her third return, as she had caught the narcolepsy of the daydreamer; but the style is always perceptive, if not witty. One must not forget such young a girl cannot have the confident mastery of a full-fledged writer, but these attempts of building a voice of her own predict the future, honest craftswoman. For sure, one cannot fail to remark the didactic undertone beneath the rambles and fancies, and shall not forget that is the purpose of all good literature.
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"I shouldn't have said that", Alice was grumbling, putting up a fight against the quaint weeds that were obstructing her way, "Should have – augh – listened – to the beast! I wouldn't be lost in Dedalus's maze by now, and would be drinking tea and solving riddles with the old crew, or hindering the Red Queen's imperial totalitarism…" She still continued to speak to herself till she stumbled on a paved stone that had eluded her attention. Swearing mutely, - it was becoming a habit, but good manners do not outlive sheer survival -, she dropped to her feet to read the inscription.
A golden afternoon does last till it ends,
Oblivion shall swipe the memories away,
And the strength weakens, and the living wane,
A port in the storm is death that mends.
Alice felt a bit disappointed. The enigma was not elaborated, invented by feeble allegoricians who could not match with modern spirits. It reminded her of her old textbook of medieval lays, but whose arcane idiom was by far more stimulating than these carved trivia. Poor letters, stuck in a foregone, glacial forest, and whose sole purpose in life was to despondently look at improbable passers-by.
"Confronting such a barren brain is indeed an eyesore", a voice suddenly scoffed. Alice startled. Given her past experiences with anthropomorphised flowers, animals, or furniture, she was not as surprised as someone not acquainted with supernatural phenomena would be. However, a sense of an ill-easiness remained (but she blamed her short-sighted society that refused to give the equality status to so-called inferior beings).
"Girl, are you so self-obsessed that you cannot answer politely? Children nowadays!" Alice eventually cast down a look and saw the mouth of letter A was still quivering. It seemed to be in a dither that its companions were trying to stifle helplessly. Alice stretched a careful finger and gently stroked the head of the plaintiff.
"I apologized. I wasn't aware that you could speak." The letters mumbled indignantly. "You understand, in my world, epitaphs don't comment freely, for the religious rites ask for an atmosphere of silence and peace within the cemetery."
"'Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed! You should be honoured, human child, to be in touch with our age of Enlightenment!"
This critical chit-chat was being so off on the track that Alice could not help but laugh. Albeit this agreeable lambaste, she had to move on, with guidance. So she mustered her last resources of graciousness and asked:
"Would you please be kind to indicate me the way out of the forest? I have an appointment on a very tight schedule." The letters began to flutter again, but now with hilarity. "So she is much of a tycoon, isn't she, dear? Tight schedule! She'll have a hell of an eternity ahead!" (T, which uttered this last sentence, was soon muffled by the chorus). "Straight and left! Keep your North and East behind your right shoulder!" "And don't forget", the colon irrupted mischievously, "hustle up or the glass window shall melt and the Beast return!"
A bit puzzled, Alice moved on, musing aloud a fantasized place that in all likelihood she would never find, for it included a White (punctual) Rabbit, a reasonable Hatter, and the most benevolent Queen the world had ever witnessed, so compassionate that she gave allowances to her amphibian servants for them to bathe in a deliciously tepid pond fanned by lascivious water-lilies. The temperature of the tea was perfect and the dormouse sang in the right tune. Logic ruled mind games and kept oval pedants at arm's length.
She suddenly stopped on a dime. She had arrived on the brink of a tempestuous stream and could not see any bridge for miles around. The clatter of the waves on the sharp rocks was sufficient to scare her off. As she was intrepid (an inch less, however, than just frightened to stay near such an unwelcoming array – she hoped that, on the other side of the bank, no funeral stones would address her and no sultry fingers would try to stroke her hair in the shadow of dangerously leaning fir trees), she decided to have a stab of the water. All Victorian children were good swimmers, her books taught her; it would not be too difficult to eat up the crossing with the swiftness of a lobster.
Putting off her formerly translucently white ballerinas, now covered with all sorts of mud, and her unpractical petticoat, she prudently tasted the temperature with one toe. Acceptable. Should strong currents extemporaneously lead her astray, she got rid of her gown too. Finding herself reduced to her tight undergarments, flushed by the probability that some creatures may peek at her, she dived into the relatively warm sea. She could not touch the bottom, and her view was obstructed by a sudden obscurity that had fallen without her knowing. "What a rip-off", she murmured loudly, hoping that her discontent would bring shame on some listeners – the country was filled with spies, and she was certain that they watched her every step). "In a sensible world, (she emphasized) streams are not supposed to transform at such short notice! And I guess that muffs are in short supply…"
Something stroked her arm. She cried out, before she realized that the Mouse of her former adventures was paddling next to her, with the sticky bristles and spiky mustache of her memories. "That is an unexpected turn of events!", she uttered the most distinctively as possible – water flooded in her mouth regularly, "At least, I am not the only one here who's fighting her way!" And she began to address her aristocratic neighbour with the appropriated tone (indeed, mice played a prominent role in England's history, and William the Conqueror, as the Duke of Northumbria, had knighted their spirit in battle multiple times, her textbooks proclaimed. One of their major success was to extinct the race of the redneck cats, reputed for their malignity).
"O Mouse, how the raging waves beautifully curl your mustache! How your furry mien is elegant and your paws rose! I wish I could resemble you, and cross the sea with no pain. Alas, as a human, I must rely on my gaunt legs and clumsy hands." The Mouse did not retaliate, neither gave her one look. Encouraged (it had not fled like last time), Alice continued: "I know your heart is bursting with compassion for the wretched soul you behold. Wouldn't you be so kind to carry her on your mighty back?"
That was out of line. The Mouse emphatically shrieked a "By no means, friend of cats, enemy of the realm!", and swam away with a determined energy. Since the odds were not for her to return, Alice, vituperating against the bombastic nature of the mammals, kept on struggling like a fly in a clump of sugar, and, as the image reached her mind, she found herself immerged more deeply into the water. Little by little, the bulls of her expiring breath around her head disappeared. Likewise, aquatic weeds acquired the texture of granite columns and shaped into arches. Alice set foot on a spongy velvet carpet that fortunately muted the sound of the water dropping down from her cloth. The vast room lined up black regal armchairs; gold-threaded tapestries hung to the walls of pure Carrare marble; and the ceiling was so high Alice could not see the summit of the dome. It was obvious that she was in the antechamber of distinguished personalities who had summoned her for tea (in all cases she kept that flattering hope, for the reason that she was thirsty and afraid of an unpleasant asking).
A butler in bright livery called out her name. As he slid along the thrones, Alice became aware his body was composed of one, gigantic tail; his eyes were red and without eyelid. She did not need to be dragged to the opposite door unwillingly; she fled, and banged on the electric button-shaped bell. A skimming whistle behind her back urged her to press the handle with all the strength left of the tiring bath. As she thought it would never happen, the door finally opened at one scoop. Unbalanced, Alice's knees brutally sank to the floor.
"Raise up to your feet! NOW!" Too easily Alice identified the owner of the bellowing voice. Naturally, she should have expected such an encounter; but her journey was not over yet, wasn't it?
The plump, cherry-colored face that Alice's lifting-up eyes met was smiling exaggeratedly, as if it tried to fry a fish with a spoilt net. After a few strained seconds, where the cheeks seemed to wriggle under a tickling juggernaut, it changed into a condescending smirk, much to Alice's relief. That perfectly befits the unavoidable altiloquent remonstrance that followed. Old habits never die.
"So, little girl, if you gained weight, you haven't gained reason at the same time! I don't expect you to remember your school lessons, do you? Such an egregious memory, and priggish; no one could bring you to your common sense! Even the White Queen has renounced, and that is much to say."
The Red Queen was pacing to and fro, making strutting gestures that Alice inevitability linked to a governess's attitude. Behind her stand her army of obedient soldiers, and for now, they did not seem to be a pack of cards at all. The swords were kept in their sheath, but Alice strongly presumed that they would be drawn out if need was to preclude a fugitive from fleeing away. Then a vision struck her with the pain of a much differed reunion. In the rear of the room, a scaffold made of pitch-dark alabaster stood mutely. The blade must have been recently sharpened, for it cast a vivid, blinding light that duplicated the Mad Hatter's shadow on the ground. He was bareheaded, and, hatless, his extraordinary orange hair imposed their untidiness joyfully, contradicting what his jointed hands, fidgeting with the silver, oppressing cuffs, were expressing. A dint of sadness toned down the jaunty color of his cheek, but his smile was carved so deeply in the flesh of his face that it could not be erased, certainly not by the usual means. Alice was certain that even death would fight against that incurable optimism.
"I declare the beginning of the trial!" the Queen shrieked, and by the entrance the jury solemnly tread the red, wining carpet that lead to the throne. How could such judges be impartial? A dithering dodo was arguing with a crippled rat about apricot tarts ("You stole them! –No, you! Your throat is large enough for the hiding!"); a whining turtle escorted a haughty Griffin that kept scolding her tardiness; pink flamingos laughed out loud before the hedgehogs' funny faces. A medieval bestiary it was! Along with that, it was a safe bet to assume they all were acquired to the Queen's cause.
"Proceed with the accusations!" The Hatter pitifully smiled at Alice, who smiled in return. By a sleight of hand, she could transform herself into a giant at any minute. That was the usual outcome of these fopperies. She could not help feeling in a dither however, for the good reason that her former adventures happened to a child, who was certain that the world from where she came from, the world of conventions and morals, of on-time clocks and merit, was supporting her. She had grown up since. Her present resembled more Wonderland than her past. Her indecision would precipitate her fall!
Pondering on this, she met the worried glance of the Mars hare. He was wistfully twiddling his long ears, scratching his fur and scattering bristles everywhere, till a member of the jury pinched his tail and sent him wander his despair outside. Their infrangible friendship stirred her strangely. As out of place as it was, that was a familiar flag of the ancient world she cherished, which valued bounds and honor human tangles. "Don't wax lyrical", she muttered to herself sternly, "it won't save the day, neither the head of my poor Hatter." What could she do, that could have an immediate effect? Harkening inattentively to the prosecutor's discourse (a minuscule toad whose horsehair wig was sliding off continuously), she painstakingly tried to contrive a plan.
"The 33d chiefs of accusation concerns the unforgivable and unscrupulous endeavor of the culprit, to drown an innocent dwarf – hem, pardon, your Majesty, rat, in a teapot! Horribile dictu, Members of the Jury, Audience, savage Weeds, domestic flowers, he dared to pick up the loftiest tea of all, the English Breakfast, the King over the Asian bushes! A scandalous profanation that surely shall merit rewards. For my part, I strongly recommend the capital penalty for such a reckless criminal!"
There was mayhem among the crowd: cheers, applauses and whistles. The Red King threw up his crown in the air and the Queen smiled fiercely. The Hatter hid his head in his trembling hands. In a flurry, Alice decided to act. Tipping over her neighbors, she flung herself in the middle of the jury, trampled on some toes indifferently, till she ended up confronting the judge (who was naturally the King; so primitive was the state that did not separate the legislative, executive, and judiciary powers, but that was not the moment for political speculations). She spoke with conviction and fury; after all, this stuff was her dream, and she was still master of her subconscious, although she would have hoped that the Hatter did not belong to that mode of hypnosis.
"I endorse all the charges that the court reproaches the accused, and shall on my own free will receive the chastisement. I beg you to spare the called Mad Hatter, on the grounds that he cannot take responsibility for his actions. Pardon his madness and let him go!" That was a rhetorically very feeble speech, but the court did not care: Alice knew their only desire was of a scapegoat, a jester, whose sole purpose was to amuse till boredom took over his audience. Hatter had wasted all his tricks; he had to be put aside; that was the general rule of the dictatorial state of Wonderland.
The crowd cheered even more; the King ventured to fling his crown again before he realized he had done it already and lost it; the Queen frowned, but nodded to the torturers, drooling with envy (that was not a fiddling thing to witness, dogs being slobbering species).
So that was it. The road to death was paved with good intentions and crumbs of pudding, it seemed. Alice inwardly sneered at her own silliness: she believed she erred on the side of caution whereas she was trapped from the very outset, by her own expectations of the duties of the external world. She felt entitled to argue with anyone because she was right. She decided to crown herself redeemer of her vagaries, sure that once she would achieve the christic task, she could make the real world abide to the re-established rules of her internal creation. In both cases, she was wrong: unable to correct her mind indulging in nonsense, she was down the rabbit-hole for the first time she stepped out into her cradle. She had held the White Rabbit in her arms, believing it was a toy; she had played out the great game of anthropomorphized animals; she had sewn small hats made of rose petals and lilies. Her nursery rhymes were as badly learnt and twisted than the melodies of all these weird creatures.
In sum, she had never left Wonderland. The realization made her flinch and stagger. Suddenly, she could not hear anything save the murmur of the Cheshire Cat, congratulating her on her achievement. The only thing that remained to be done was to save the Hatter, if she could remember, but above all, believing in his existence.
At this point, she had ruled out everything that did not resemble the burning wish that was overpowering her. Understand the hokum was an escape; escaping the reason was an absurd hokum that needed reason. Albeit this wild illogicality, it was a better solution than reasonable incongruity.
She stretched her arm and firmly took the Hatter's hand. The saving grace was beneath their strength, but they still have each other, and her lucidity.
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The diary stopped the moment Alice decided to retreat from her imaginative world. Of course, no sign of any other companion, as the Mad Hatter, had been noticed. The green, emerald writing had faded a bit, but is still legible. It is my duty, as an editor, to try to publish that marvelous tale of young age. That is quite the fashion nowadays, and I am sure it will find its audience of enlightened readers that have read the Bildungsroman of Mr. Dickens and crave for a new genre of literature. Both authors share the same desire to show how a destiny can be forged with or without the help of improbable (d)alliances. Their products have a bright future before them. No adulteration shall be made in the original text: the delicate border between fiction and reality will be kept safe, since the only adventurer who dared to trespass had mysteriously disappeared, two days after a protracted slumber that resembled coma. Witnesses, including mother and relatives, attest that the young author retired more frequently in her room, till her complete - and still unexplainable - disappearance.