A/N: So sorry for the immense wait. I'm not giving up on this story but, alas, my course writing; repetitive strain; incessant Guild Wars playing; oh and my RPG (see my profile, if you're a POTC fan, do join up!); amongst other things takes up all my time. Any questions already asked, I shall try to reply to some day. Sincere apologies and hope you enjoy this slightly shorter but needed chapter.
Having dealt with the mysterious bucket, which had popped out of existence the moment it was noticed, the companions stepped through the gates of the Labyrinth.
"I don't know exactly what it was you did, Bodders, but nice work," said Jack.
The twittering of the birds answered him.
Both he and Mr Wonka turned about, looked around them and checked the outside of the gates. Once again, Crane was nowhere to be seen.
"We've started the game," muttered the pirate. "She's taken 'im."
Wonka sighed.
"Well goshdarnit, this really is a nutty predicament," he said. "I got no clue why this has happened but we'd better press on. Only thirty-nine hours to go!"
"Even less for me," Jack grumbled, hurrying along what looked like a never-ending path towered by walls each side.
William frowned.
"Why is that anyhow?"
"Dunno," replied Jack, not looking Wonka in the eyes. "Just 'as something against me, perhaps?"
They walked on for some time without word. The road did not bend and the horizon was no closer.
"Ya know, I'm not very impressed with the method of design for this area of maze," Mr Wonka said huffily. "It's not exactly nouveau to do the circular loop inside a square framework and make you believe you're always goin' straight."
Jack stopped. He cracked his knuckles at his sides.
"Are you saying, Mr Wonka, that not only have we been travelling in a directly circular route, but you also knew the circular motion of our perambulations and failed to mention that we are in fact going around in circles?"
Mr Wonka thought this over, a slip of his tongue poking out as he searched the brim of his hat for a reply.
"Yep," he said, beaming.
"I thought that patch of moss looked familiar."
Crane awoke in discomfort, feeling the weight of his body pressuring his wrists and ankles. His eyes opened and took in the image of a most welcome visitor.
"Katrina…?"
He groaned and noticed the sudden jingling of chains that prevented him from moving.
The young woman was pale and distraught. She hurried forwards and cupped his face in her hands.
"Oh, Ichabod, what happened?"
"I, that is, I'm not sure -, where am I?" he stuttered, seeing the sombre walls of the cell.
Katrina's eyes welled with tears.
"I found you in your room. You were sick with fever, crying out all sorts of strange things."
"I was?"
She nodded, fingers curled to caress his cheek.
"Father thought you'd taken on the madness. Working too hard. We brought you to the Masbaths' basement to confine you safely."
Ichabod winced in painful confusion.
"Makes no sense. What was I saying for you to think me mad?"
Katrina made no jest about her answer.
"You spoke of another world. Like a dream, where you had to escape some terrible place before time ran out. You kept calling out to people with strange names like…like Mr Winker?"
"Wonka." He said it without hesitation.
"Yes. Were you dreaming? Oh please say you were only in a deep realm of sleep. Then I can tell everyone and we can go home." Hope flushed in her face.
The constable sighed.
"Perhaps I was…but it all seemed so real. Maybe some part of me wished it were so. Very odd." He raised his eyebrows and whispered to himself. "To admit that would be like admitting to acts of masochism."
Katrina slipped her arms around him and held him tightly.
"You were shouting a lot about some man named Edward too. Is he a brother to you?" she wondered. "You seemed so concerned."
Even if it were a dream, he couldn't remember wishing someone else were sharing their predicament, kidnapped by that awful…
"No, not a brother," Ichabod replied. "He was -." He laughed a little. "He was a young man with scissors for hands. Gentle man, not a harmful bone in his body."
"Scissors for hands?" she gasped. "Why, where on earth did he come from?"
"Another world. Like ours, but ahead in time I think."
As Ichabod held in his mind the forlorn but kindly image of Edward Scissorhands, Katrina squeezed his hand sharply.
"Ow-!"
She did not apologise.
"But where? What was this other world like?" she demanded.
He frowned.
"It was a dream, Katrina. It wasn't real. Does it matter?"
Katrina's nails dug into his palm. Her eyes shone gold and silver. Her voice became piercingly urgent.
"Where is Edward?"
Had Mr Wonka's cane been a sentient object, it would have undoubtedly felt very lonely and upset at its master's disappearance. It might have also been more than a little affronted at being dropped in an especially boring patch of sugar grass, not to mention being completely avoided by the Oompa Loompas. They did after all have a fear that it was cursed.
Nonetheless, it was feeling pretty cheesed off; until a young man with a body of black leather popped out of thin air and landed beside it. The cane sparkled with unreal joy, the black swirl on its knob spinning in glee. Had it grown eyes, it would have been overwhelmed to see an old friend return, even if said friend was now staggering off, somewhat green in pallor, and – oh god not in the ginger snap rosebush!
Alarms sounded and Oompa Loompas, each one suited in anti-contamination gear, swarmed over the hill to greet the arrival. They fussed about the boy, piling in pyramids to check his hair; his ears; his tongue for anything and everything that might be damaging to a confectionery environment. One of them stuffed a toffee into his mouth before he could refuse, curing him almost instantly of his sickness. Satisfied he was not a hazard, the little people led him away over the meadow.
No one paid any attention to Mr Wonka's cane, but that was all right. It didn't know any better.
