by A. G. Howard
Using the diary to trigger the latch, I peek inside. A gym with weights, a stationary bike, and a treadmill sit beneath blinking, dim fluorescent lights. There are no occupants, so I step in. A punching bag shaped like an egg hangs a few feet away from a wall of broken mirrors. The front faces me with painted eyes, round cheeks, and a mouth—a creeped-out, nursery rhyme version of Humpty Dumpty.
A hiss comes from the back of the bag. Trembling, I watch as it makes a slow revolution and somehow locks into place in spite of the twisted ropes that wait to unwind.
My breath gusts out of me. It’s Mr. Holt’s face on the other side. Not a flat drawing, but a flesh-and-bone, three-dimensional face, snarling. This is the Mr. Holt I knew: his once handsome features sharpened by anger and discontent, his cheeks hollowed out by too much alcohol and lack of proper nutrition.
His eyes, like the other Mr. Holt’s, are formed of lit cigarette butts.
He scowls. “Trip me again. I dare you, worthless little punk. Make me spill my beer. That’s what you get. Stop crying, dammit. That’s what happens when you leave your toys out. No! Your mom shouldn’t have to pick them up for you. It only makes her share your punishment. It’s your fault she’s bleeding. Your fault.”
The childhood pictures I’ve seen of Jeb’s agonized gaze burn into my brain. This is what he suffered every day. I’m amazed he survived at all. No wonder he always blamed himself for what happened to his mom and sister.
Mr. Holt’s tongue continues to flap, the words degrading and hate-filled.
Something snaps inside me—the part that wants revenge for all he did to the boy I love. I lash out and slap his lips so hard the sound echoes sharply and my hand stings.
The bag spins around slowly. “Hahaha! Was that supposed to hurt? Your baby sister hits harder than you.” Mr. Holt spits out a tooth, some blood, and a stream of obscenities.
I can’t move. I actually left a mark on him . . . I cut his lip and broke a tooth. How many times has Jeb been here, pounding his father’s face? Judging by the bruises and gashes on this bag, he probably lost count. If he felt as unfulfilled as I do right now, it didn’t do him any good.
I rush from the room, my spirit heavy and dismal as I shut the cruel taunts of Mr. Holt behind the door.
Jeb, what have you done to yourself? He’s fallen so far into despair and bitterness, it’s as if he were dead. A vast hopelessness lodges in my soul and strangles all hope.
Legs heavy, I stumble around another twisting curve in the tunnel and reach the third doorway.
“Morpheus!” I shout again, voice cracking. I don’t want to see any more. Jeb’s not the boy I once knew, and I don’t know how to get him back . . .
Worse, I don’t have time to figure it out.
A motorized sound draws me to the door made of bark and willow leaves.
I hesitate. If each door symbolizes what’s behind it, this one has something to do with the willow tree that joins my and Jeb’s backyards. We used to play chess under it as kids. Then when we became a couple, we’d go there to be alone.
It doesn’t make sense that he’d put Morpheus in here, but the vibrating sound hasn’t stopped. “Morpheus?” The hum intensifies. I take a breath, tap the knob with the diary, and peer inside.
Snowflakes fall from the rafters. It smells like real snow, though it’s not cold on the skin, only glistening. Black lights and fog complement the dreamy atmosphere. Unlike the other two rooms, this one’s not demented or disturbing.
It’s beautiful.
I step inside, cautious. The front half is decked out like a prom scene: silver pillars wrapped in greenery, an arch swathed in purple velvet, and white tulle draped around a wicker bench. Shiny Mardi Gras masks hang from rafters on varied lengths of string—purple, black, and silver.
A replica of the dress Jenara made me for prom is arranged atop the bench—white lace, pearls, and airbrushed shadows. I inch closer, intrigued by the wrist corsage in a clear plastic box. Upon spotting the ring nestled inside one of the roses—tiny diamonds forming a heart with wings—I drop to the seat, my body weak. It looks exactly like the one Jeb gave me when he proposed. The one I wore on my neck that fused with my Wonderland key and heart locket beneath the press of Morpheus’s magic.
I trace the box’s lid where a gold ribbon binds it. With one tug, the bow poofs into a golden, glittering fall of letters that form a message in midair—
Things I once hoped to give you:
1. A magical wedding . . .
Choking back tears, I take out the ring and loop it onto the string alongside the diary’s key at my neck, tucking it under my shirt to keep it safe.
A picnic basket sits at my feet beneath the bench. There’s another ribbon, and when I untie it, more letters form a glimmering parade through the air:
2. Picnics at the lake with your mom and dad . . .
I sniffle and make my way to the middle of the room, where reproductions of my mosaics float next to Sold signs. I tug a ribbon loose and free another message:
3. A lifetime of shared successes and laughter . . .
Overcome with emotion, I turn toward the humming noise along the back wall. A motorcycle idles high up in the rafters, amid strands of white Christmas lights. A bow is tied on the handlebars. I free my wings and rise. Snowflakes and a soft breeze wind around me as I settle atop the seat, returning me to all the times I rode behind Jeb, my arms wrapped around his sturdy form. Completely at ease, yet so unbalanced. So perfectly, erringly human.
I stiffen my chin against a quiver and slip the ribbon loose from the handlebars:
4. Midnight rides across the stars . . .
The lovely words glisten all around me, feeding my need for more. There are too many ribbons and objects to count. I fly from one to another, unwinding more wishes: for little girls with my hair and eyes, and boys who have their mother’s stubborn streak; for the safety of one another’s arms every night; for growing old together and cherishing every wrinkle, age spot, and gray hair; and on and on and on.
My chest swells—so full it could burst. The room is a shrine to everything I’ve ever hoped for. Things Jeb wanted to give me. His heart shines in all he created here; his selflessness, his nobility and devotion, the desire to make others happy. His true character hasn’t been destroyed. It’s just been shelved, suppressed.
My Jeb is alive.
I flutter to the ground and reabsorb my wings. I don’t want to leave. But before I can help mend Jeb, find Mom, and fix Wonderland, I have to get Morpheus and face Red.
“I’ll be back,” I whisper, and lock the door behind me.
Two rooms left to explore.
I stop at the rose-petal door. I don’t even hesitate this time. One tap of the diary, and I’m inside.
The walls, also lined with red roses, curl overhead and meet in the middle, forming a dome. Tiny clear globes float above me, tinkling as they bump into one another. They each harbor vivid moving scenes—like miniature silent films.
One in particular catches my attention. Inside, an ashen funnel drops from the sky. Out falls Queen Red in her giant zombie-flower form, along with Jeb and Morpheus. It’s the moment they first got to AnyElsewhere. The guys are still wearing their prom clothes, and Jeb has on a half mask.
I capture the globe to watch the scene unfold up close. Red looms over Jeb and Morpheus, casting a long blue shadow. A distorted, snarling mouth widens in the midst of her flowery head, and rows of eyes blink on every petal. Her ivy tangles around the guys as they wrestle, trying to escape. Jeb breaks one arm free and digs in his pants pocket, dragging out a knife. Morpheus distracts Red—strong-arming the vines until she slips several more around him to keep control. Jeb saws through his restraints—just like he did when we faced the garden of monstrous flowers on our trip to Wonderland.
Once he’s loose, he grabs the severed ivy, using it to bind Red’s other limbs and help Morpheus.
Red teeters, then hits the ground, helpless.
As the dust
clears, Jeb and Morpheus glare at each other. Still clutching a vine, Jeb rips off his prom mask, shouts something, then turns to walk away. Morpheus jumps him from behind. They fight on the ground and Morpheus ends up on top, wings enfolding them in a tent. The outline of Jeb’s face presses against the black, satiny membrane from the other side. He’s suffocating. Anger boils up inside me.
The scene ends. Ivory told me weeks ago that Morpheus’s actions are where the truth lies. Last year when he used that smothering trick on Jeb, he was knocking him unconscious to be alone with me. So he had to have a reason to want Jeb unconscious this time. And there’s only one way to find out what it was.
The moment I turn to go, the remaining globes drop down, insisting I look inside. An uneasy tremor quakes through me with each glimpse. One is an image of Queen Red’s mother when Red was young; there are also moments between Red and both her parents—drinking tea, laughing . . . planting flowers; and Red dancing with her father as her mother claps from a distance.
These are all things Jeb can’t possibly know. Things only Red would know.
Before I can piece together what that means, an image of Charles Dodgson takes shape inside a globe that’s floating away. I stretch up to grab it.
He’s walking on a flower-strewn path alongside an older, distinguished gentleman. As they stroll beneath some shady trees, the older man’s appearance shifts and I see—so clearly—Red wearing the professor’s imprint. Just like Hubert said, at the inn.
My heartbeat thunders.
Charles carries a journal filled with handwritten equations and longitude/latitude directions. Together, Charles and Red’s professor-imprint step through some shrubbery, coming to stop at the little-boy sundial statue—the gateway to the rabbit hole—that once hid Wonderland’s entrance before I destroyed everything.
The image goes dark. I’m about to release the globe when it lights up once more to another scene and a group of people having a picnic. Several children, a mother and a father, and Charles. Alice Liddell’s face comes into view. She looks just like the seven-year-old in the picture Mom had hidden in Dad’s recliner. This family must be hers . . . the Liddells, close friends with Charles.
Alice’s face is alight with excitement as she scampers alone through a haze of vintage spectators. Scones, teacups on lace doilies, and parasols abound. She circles a familiar set of shrubs. Eyes wide with wonder, she stands head-to-head with the sundial statue. It’s been pushed aside, exposing the hole underneath.
Two fuzzy white ears appear from within, and a bunny face complete with wriggling nose and endearing whiskers comes into view. Alice gapes as the bunny motions with a pink, padded paw for her to follow. What she doesn’t see is the shift of the imprint, and Rabid White’s bony hand, old man’s face, and white antlers.
The white rabbit disappears back into the hole. Looking around her, Alice hesitates. But the curious light in her eyes burns brighter than her fear, and she plunges in. Queen Red creeps from behind a rosebush and coaxes the sundial statue back into place over the hole, locking it. She’s gone before Charles and Alice’s father appear, looking for the missing child.
Neither one knows there’s a hole beneath the statue, apparent by the bewilderment on their faces. Charles had found the gateway, but never figured out how to open it.
I know the rest of the tale by heart: Alice was missing for days. Then later, after she returned, Charles, a.k.a. Lewis Carroll, wrote her story out on paper. But it wasn’t Alice who returned at all. It was Red.
The globe goes dark again and I release it.
I stand in place, numb.
All this time I thought Alice accidentally stumbled into Wonderland. But Red planted the possibility of the nether-realm in Charles Dodgson’s mind as his colleague. When Charles found the sundial statue and nothing more, he figured his calculations were wrong. So instead, the tale blossomed to fiction within his storyteller’s imagination. He filled Alice and her siblings’ heads with fanciful notions and fairy-tale enticements, made the mistake of mentioning the statue, even took the family to see it during a picnic, never realizing the repercussions.
Red wanted Alice to go down the rabbit hole. She arranged for it.
An uncomfortable warmth niggles in my skull—my netherling intuition waking . . . nudging. Either because Red’s spirit once shared my body, or because her memories are still on the back burner of my mind, I know that this epiphany is fact, not speculation.
Hubert said Red wanted to improve the netherling lineage. That she thought the humans were better somehow.
What makes human children better? Why does Sister Two steal them and string them up in the garden of souls?
Dreams and imagination . . .
The diary wriggles at my neck, further validation. The forgotten memories on these pages shaped Red’s motivations long before she chose to forget them. But the problem is, she did choose to forget. She forgot why she wanted to bring dreams into Wonderland.
“I’ll bring dreams to our kind, Father. They’ll be in abundance everywhere, not just in the cemetery. One day, I’ll free the spirits, so they can sleep inside our gardens, brushing our windows at night, and bumping against our feet in the day. I’ll bring imagination to our world so everyone might always be with those they treasure.”
The only things Red remembered after killing her memories were that she wanted to bring dreams to the nether-realm, and she wanted power and revenge. Somehow, they became one in her mind. After her husband betrayed her, she had nothing to lose by playing the part of a careless queen, to have herself banished from the kingdom so no one would notice when she disappeared into the human realm.
She trapped a human child in Wonderland and wore her imprint as camouflage so she could breed with a mortal and bring back halfling heirs. Those descendants were supposed to introduce dreams and imagination into the netherling world. But how was setting Wonderland to rights supposed to satisfy her need for revenge and power?
My head feels foggy and bloated. I’m still missing something. A crucial part of her plan.
I look around for more scenes. Up at the center of the domed ceiling, the globes are being crafted by a green, leafy vine, just like the one Jeb had in his hand when Morpheus attacked him after they escaped Red. The vine is suspended in midair without anyone guiding it, giving life to each scene with a glimmer of crimson magic that drips from its tip.
Crimson magic. That was the color of Red’s magic in her memories. Morpheus’s is blue. Jeb’s is purple.
I lean against the wall, short of breath from the overpowering scent of roses.
How could I have missed it? When Jeb fell into this world wrapped in those vines, he absorbed a part of Red’s magic, along with a part of Morpheus’s—who was also trapped. And I’d bet my life Morpheus already knows. It explains why the images in this room belong to Red, and why the graffiti attacked me. It explains why Jeb seems like someone else . . . and why Red’s forgotten memories scorched him through the diary.
The carpet beetle’s words echo in my mind: Repudiated memories . . . want revenge against the one who made and discarded them.
The memories on the diary’s pages sensed Red’s remnants inside Jeb and his creations, and wanted revenge. It was never about protecting me at all.
Nearly tripping over my boots, I back out of the door. It slams shut behind me.
Red is a part of Jeb. So how can I destroy Red’s spirit and end her forever without killing him, too?
The final door is free of embellishments or design. Of course Jeb would craft a plain entrance for Morpheus’s room.
I rush inside and tuck the diary necklace under my shirt next to the key and the ring, expecting Jeb’s moths to be standing guard. Instead, I’m hit by hookah tobacco, scented of charcoal and plums and carried by a gentle breeze. An ultraviolet mushroom the size of a truck tire sits in the distance. The cloud of smoke settles across it like heavy fog over a village.
A circle of trees twines together to form a domed
roof. A lavender sky peeks through the canopy, casting moving shadows. Tiny lights bedeck the branches.
Morpheus’s lair looks just as it did when Jeb and I visited Wonderland, and when I visited during childhood dreams, learning how to be a queen.
Speckled with lime green moss and bright yellow lichen, the ground feels springy under my plastic soles. Happy memories of playing childish games with Morpheus nearly overwhelm me, entangled with all the confusing adult emotions he’s awakened over the past year.
Sprites drop down from the trees, luminous and temperamental. They shake their fists at me, intolerant of my presence like most of Jeb’s creations. When they start darting at me like marble-size hail, hard enough to leave welts, Nikki comes to my rescue with Chessie close behind. They round up the others and herd them toward the hookah haze. The sprites’ grumbles clang like silverware being tossed in a drawer as they retreat into the cloud.
“Carousing Cap!” Morpheus shouts from inside.
Chessie and Nikki dart out and disappear through the trees in search of Morpheus’s missing hat.
“You sent them after the wrong one,” I protest. “We won’t be doing any celebrating.”
“There’s a pity.” Morpheus’s voice floats out from the cloud, as sultry as the smoke that carries it. “You’re certainly dressed for it. Your mortal has outdone himself.” He puffs and a wisp of smoke drifts toward me. “I suppose, though, since we shan’t be showing off your stunning ensemble, we could find a waterfall to play in. I’d like a peek at those gifts I sent you last night.”
The skin under my lingerie tingles. I stiffen my chin, determined not to let him see his effect on me. “I saw the rooms.”
“Ah,” comes his disembodied answer without a hint of surprise. “Well, before you rain down all the usual accusations, I should clarify that I wasn’t going to let you kill Red. Not until we flush her from your mortal toy’s system.”
I fake a laugh. “Right. You want Jeb dead as much as her. Two birds with one stone.”
“If that were true, he wouldn’t be here now. When we landed, the goon birds started swarming overhead. They prefer live food, so I faked killing Jebediah. I hid him to protect him, just as I’ve been doing ever since.”