Author's note: The poem in this chapter is from The Ode Less Travelled, by Stephen Fry.
Fit the Sixth: the Island
The midnight moon was shining with a feverish brilliance through ragged, racing clouds.
Tarrant had been entirely unable to sleep, plagued with curiosity over whether Alice was able to sleep. Instead of continuing with the futile endeavor, he was out on the deck, watching the waves.
"'Beyond a doubt'," he mumbled to himself. "As if anything truly were beyond the bounds of doubt. Beyond a doubt you are a coward, Hatter. Can stab a Jabberwock for her, but can't bring yerself to tell her how you feel."
"Talking to yourself, I see," said a voice from above. "Some might think you had gone mad."
He smiled without looking up. "But the likes of you would know better, Chessur. I did not know you were accompanying us."
The grinning cat unfolded himself and floated to the railing in front of him. "You don't think I would miss out on an adventure like this, do you? What was that you were saying about Alice?"
Tarrant wasn't sure whether to lie or tell the truth, so he didn't say anything.
"Something about telling her how you feel?" Chessur prompted.
"Oh that? That was nothing. Just wondering to myself if I should tell her she's crazy to be going on this quest for a snark, her being confirmedly beamish, and me being so madly in love with her I fear I would die if she vanished away."
"Ah yes. That is always a concern when it comes to that particular ailment. Frightfully tricky situation."
"Quite," the Hatter agreed. "Quite tricky. What do you think? I could tell her how I love her before we go hunting for the snark so I shall know she knows it in case she vanishes away, or should I wait until we bring back a snark for the White Queen so that I shall know Alice is safe and sound and isn't going to vanish at all, but what if she returns to Overland? But perhaps she would return to Overland unless I tell her. Or perhaps she wouldn't want to stay in Underland if I do tell her."
Seemingly growing bored of Tarrant's rambling, Chessur began floating and recited a poem, as if to himself.
"How rare it is when things go right
When days go by without a slip
And don't go wrong, as well they might.
The smallest triumphs cause delight -
The kitchen's clean, the taps don't drip,
How rare it is when things go right.
Your ice cream freezes overnight,
Your jellies set, your pancakes flip
And don't go wrong, as well they might.
When life's against you, and you fight
To keep a stiffer upper lip.
How rare it is when things go right.
The oven works, the gas rings light.
Gravies thicken, potatoes chip
And don't go wrong as well they might.
Such pleasures don't endure, so bite
The grapes of fortune to the pip.
How rare it is when things go right
And don't go wrong as well they might."
Tarrant listened thoughtfully until the sound of the lapping waves took over the cat's purrful intonations. "You do have a point," he said. "I almost wish I knew what it was."
Chessur glanced his way from the corner of his eye. "It's so very simple, my dear hatter: if you tell her how you feel you may lose her, and if you do not, you most assuredly will."
The morning came shrouded in thick silvery fog. The air was still, but the boat seemed to have been swept up in a current that carried them vaguely in the direction Pepper thought they aught to go.
Alice stood on the deck looking doubtfully at the morning's eerie dimness.
"It was just such a morning..." Mag said as she descended from the crow's nest. She did not finish the thought, if she had one. "Would you like a turn as lookout, Alice?"
"I would. Do you suppose we will reach the island today?"
"Hard to say. But I for one think we are lost enough."
Alice climbed the ladder to the high platform. Up here, the rocking on the ship was far more pronounced, and she could almost see over the fog. Above, dark rolling clouds blocked out the sky.
Minutes and more passed without this view altering. Alice was beginning to grow entirely bored with it when something large and dark materialized from the silvery sky. She looked for a long moment until she was completely sure: it was a craggy mountain, or three mountains bunched together. She couldn't quite tell. But there was no doubt it was at least one mountain. "Land ho!" she cried jubilantly.
They sailed toward the island, which was far bigger than it had first seemed. The fog thinned, and dark, shaggy forests became discernible at the foot of the stone mountains.
"I don't like the look of this place," said Thackery. "Not a bit."
"I'm inclined to agree with you," said Alice.
They anchored the boat a safe distance from the rocky shore and a party consisting of Tarrant, Alice, the Bandersnatch, Mag, Tweedledee and Tweedledum took a rowboat to the island.
The echoing silence that met them at the tree-choked beach seemed more appropriate for an empty old house than an island. But as they got closer, animal sounds like the chirping of insects and the croaking of frogs became audible.
Bandersnatch, for his part, bounded onto the beach with all the enthusiasm of returning to a familiar childhood playground.
"I guess this is the right place," Alice surmised.