Faithful Pebble
Part One Hundred and Eleven

Alice checked herself in some alarm, at hearing something that sounded to her like the puffing of a large steam-engine in the wood near them, though she feared it was more likely to be a wild beast. 'Are there any lions or tigers about here?' she asked timidly.

'It's only the Red King snoring,' said Tweedledee.

'Come and look at him!' the brothers cried, and they each took one of Alice's hands, and led her up to where the King was sleeping.

'Isn't he a lovely sight?' said Tweedledum.

Alice couldn't say honestly that he was. He had a tall red night-cap on, with a tassel, and he was lying crumpled up into a sort of untidy heap, and snoring loud— 'fit to snore his head off!' as Tweedledum remarked.

'I'm afraid he'll catch cold with lying on the damp grass,' said Alice, who was a very thoughtful little girl.

'He's dreaming now,' said Tweedledee: 'and what do you think he's dreaming about?'

Alice said 'Nobody can guess that.'

'Why, about you!' Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. 'And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?'

'Where I am now, of course,' said Alice.

'Not you!' Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. 'You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!'

'If that there King was to wake,' added Tweedledum, 'you'd go out— bang!—just like a candle!'

'I shouldn't!' Alice exclaimed indignantly. 'Besides, if I'm only a sort of thing in his dream, what are you, I should like to know?'

'Ditto,' said Tweedledum.

'Ditto, ditto!' cried Tweedledee.

He shouted this so loud that Alice couldn't help saying 'Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise.'

'Well, it's no use your talking about waking him,' said Tweedledum, 'when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real.'

'I am real!' said Alice, and began to cry.

"Ditto," said Tweedledum.

"Ditto, ditto!" said the smallest pickpocket.

"Ditto, ditto," said the old man rising from his bed.

The early morning was bright and welcoming. For anyone else, it would have brought a smile to their face and a sunny disposition to their shoulders, but for the old wood cutter, the sun's rays barely seeped through the dusty windows and crack enriched door of his hut. Through the kitchen, the hall and beneath the doorframe of his bedroom, shadows loomed. By the time the morning's diluted flicker reached him, there was no sunshine left for the woodcutter. It didn't play with his hair nor tickle the backs of his ancient knotted knees. Yet its presence was felt. Its demand for time and work basked hot upon his balding scalp. It made him frown, the wood cutter. It made him grumble.

He dressed. He ate and gathered item after item which for the day he needed: an age old walking stick, a sizable sac of coins, his diamond dragon necklace and his worn yet sturdy yet very broken tool of an axe. It needed a sharpening. Its handle needed a sanding. Its blade a strong, solid, securing. He grumbled as he exited the hut's front door. He moved to waddle up the hill pass the well and onto his favorite shortcut through the forest.

He hated the jog. It took most of the day one way. Yet, in spite his complaints, he knew the task was worth the adventure. Bruice's blacksmithing was legendary. Everyone went to him and it peeved the old man a little his success, but not enough to go to someone else. He would go. The sun be damned.

He smiled then as the sun's light faded behind the forest and its trees, behind the forest and its gloom settled defiantly in the light. In this, he and the forest were in agreement. The wood cutter, he favored the shadows.

- Calla