The Curious Case of Mary Ann

by Jenn Thorson

  “Ah,” the knight raised a finger, “but the poem has another clue to our event’s timing. You see, ‘mome’ wasn’t always ‘mome.’ The original word in the early version of the poem was ‘morroam,’ which referred to the first feasting day before the rath’s late spring migration. And that happens on the sixteenth of the month, like clockwork. A sloppy scribe wrote it down as mome a century later and bungled the whole thing. So you see, it must be done today. Also,” he said, “the Vorpal sword showed up in my scabbard.” He held up the item in question, a weapon with a long shining blade, serrated teeth at the base, and a fearsomely molded hilt.

  There was no getting round it. One cannot argue with magic swords and the feasting patterns of Olde Turvian raths.

  So off to the Tulgey Barrens they went, Sir Rufus on his trusted stallion, a chestnut horse by the name of Goodspeed, and Mary Ann on the only remaining horse in the stables, an elderly rose grey mare called Lolly.

  It became clear how powerfully none of them, human and equine alike, wanted be on this journey by how fast they found themselves in the deepest, darkest part of the Tulgey Barrens.

  “Now, this is important,” began Sir Rufus in hushed tones, for hushed tones seemed just the thing in this part of the forest, “the Jabberwock is like no other creature in the land. Research suggests it stands at over twenty feet high. Its claws are so sharp, it can rip right through non-Vorpal steel. Its jaws — well, you saw the head. Powerful and razor-like. It has breath like an old rotted onion and leathery wings and a whiplike tail. Its singing voice is —”

  “It sings?”

  “Right before it goes in for the slaughter,” he said. “Also in the bath. So keep alert; you’ll need to discern which is which.”

  Suddenly, she understood the need for squire practice and wished she’d gotten a bit of it.

  The trees grew together more densely as Mary Ann and the knight proceeded on their journey. Goodspeed expressed some opinions about the expedition (“These shoes hurt …” “I’m thirsty …” “My saddle itches …”), while Lolly’s ears twitched, listening for dangers ahead.

  They reached a marshy part of the wood and Goodspeed came to a sharp stop. “Nope, sorry. This is me done,” he said.

  “What? Why?” Sir Rufus asked. “Fine…We’ll fix the saddle.”

  “It’s not the saddle,” said Goodspeed, “it’s … my Uncle Reggie died like this.”

  “He died chasing the Jabberwock?” Perhaps Sir Rufus and the horse normally didn’t chat that much.

  “’Twas a squirrel, sir,” said Goodspeed. “But, oh, what a fury of a squirrel, he was! Clawed, fanged, conniving and —and —”

  Rufus raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Ripped him to shreds, did it?”

  “Lured him into a swamp and he drowned. A swamp just like that one.” The horse pointed with a hoof.

  Rufus sighed and dismounted, grabbing the horse’s face and giving him a black look. “You’re supposed to be my noble steed.”

  “Yes, Sir. And it’s no bull when I say I’ll be waiting for you right here, if — er, when — when you make it back.”

  Mary Ann dismounted, too — not so easy in that awkward housemaid dress — and called to Lolly. “Your uncle wasn’t killed in a luring-by-squirrel incident, was he?” But Lolly had fallen asleep standing up. “Oh, never mind.”

  They grabbed their saddlebags and hammock rolls, and Sir Rufus his shield and sword. They would continue the journey on foot.

  They sought their manxome foe for what seemed like a very long time, slogging through marshlands, searching the intermittent areas of solid ground for claw prints or the drag of a tail … Checking the underbrush for broken branches … Listening for unexpected singing, or the sounds of someone having a bath.

  Mary Ann supposed they were making history — weren’t they? — in the pursuit of the Jabberwock. Or making past, if one wished to be pedantic. But she couldn’t help but think she had a lot more pressing matters to which she should be attending right now. Like dusting, fetching water — oh, and finding out why her father was killed.

  She was thinking very hard about this last point — so hard, she was surprised to hear her own voice say, “What does one do about a murder in Turvy these days?”

  “Oh.” The knight seemed taken aback at the suddenness of the conversation. “Well, I suppose that depends on whether you’re committing or prosecuting. If you’re planning to commit one, I wouldn’t recommend it from the beginning. Just resist the temptation and don’t look back, is what I say.” Sir Rufus squinted in thought. “Unless it’s Jabberwock-related. In which case it wouldn’t be so much a murder as a slaying. Slaying is pre-approved, you see, whilst murder makes it hard to get yourself invited round to holiday dinners.”

  “No,” said Mary Ann, “no murderous plans on my part. I was just wondering what the protocol was for, say … witnessing a general murder here in Turvy? Hypothetically, of course.”

  “Generally speaking,” he began, “that’s determined by the Square in which it was committed. I understand Square Twelve has a person who solely investigates questionable deaths. But that’s because part of Twelve is located on mead mine and people vanish into it regularly; I heard the same fellow’s in charge of a rehabilitation program.” Sir Rufus pushed aside a branch. “But in Square Six, all cases go to the Earl there, and in Square Eleven it’s the Duke. And then if it’s the border between squares, an inter-lord coalition’s involved and the two groups have to duke it out.”

  “Or earl or baron,” said Mary Ann.

  “Precisely!” said Rufus. “Then, if it can’t be agreed upon there, it gets bumped up to the Red or White Royals. It’s all about jurisdictions.”

  “What about this Square?”

  “Oh, well, Square Four,” he said, “it gets brought to my father who dispatches his guards to investigate the situation. Then he rules on the evidence. Funny you mention it, actually,” Rufus said, “because he hired two lead guards not long ago who’ve really taken to the position. Father’s impressed.”

  “And what process does Lord Carmine use in these cases?” asked Mary Ann.

  “First he decides if it’s a forward or backwards murder. If the evidence suggests it’s done forward — that is, the planning first, then the killing — there’s nothing to be done but find the killer and bring him to justice; the murder can’t be avoided. But if it’s a backwards murder, then that would mean the killer might still be gathering resources and planning after the fact. So there’s a chance of stopping the thing altogether.”

  “But the victim would still be dead,” said Mary Ann.

  “Never underestimate the power of poor follow-through,” said Rufus. “It can undo a backwards situation like that.” He snapped his fingers — or would have, if he hadn’t been wearing metal gloves.

  Mary Ann mulled all this over a moment. “So what becomes of the murderer if they’re found guilty?” she asked.

  “Typically, a public execution and all the murderer’s possessions go to the family of the victim. Unless, of course, they have something my father likes.”

  Well, at least he’s up front about it, thought Mary Ann. “And if the murderer is not Turvian?”

  The knight considered this. “I believe the rulers of the killer’s homeland would have to get involved.”

  “So if it were a citizen of … say … Neath that did the murdering,” Mary Ann hoped it sounded like some random choice, “the case would go to Queen Valentina?”

  “Very likely.” He mused on this a moment further. “Yes … yes, I imagine it would. And perhaps it has, but I can’t recall any such case.” Sir Rufus eyed her. “What brought all this on?”

  “I don’t know, Sir,” said Mary Ann, who thought quickly. “It’s very likely follow-up to a backwards political justice conversation we’ll have some future day. I look forward to it!” She offered him her most demure, most housemaidly smile and promptly went invisible.

  “Yes, I suppose …” His tone sounded
unconvinced, but he did leave it at that.

  They went on in silence for some time more, before the sun worked its way toward the horizon and Sir Rufus spoke again. “Miss? Where’ve you —? Oh.” He fixed on her. “There you are. We should make camp, while we still have daylight. This is a good place,” he said, indicating a small grove of trees and a rocky clearing. “I was hoping we’d already be done with this Jabberwock thing by now, but it seems our guest of honor is uncooperative. You’ll be all right with a night in the woods?”

  “A knight or a night?” she asked. “I expect it depends on the character of both.”

  At this he flushed, muttered, “I suppose that’s true. I can only guarantee the one,” and fell back into silence. They set down their gear and for the next few minutes, Sir Rufus clanked around gathering wood and Mary Ann set about unfurling the travel hammocks.

  She had managed to untangle them and was about to tie the first to an accessible tree when she heard a tumbling sound. Looking up, she saw Sir Rufus standing frozen in the waning sun, an armful of logs at his feet. His gaze was drawn to the path before them.

  “It … is … here …” he breathed, fear in his eyes, his long face ghastly pale under his helmet.

  Mary Ann turned slowly in the direction of his gaze to see two red lights hovering in the dusk. With them came a sound, a mournful burbling melody like a warbling bird drowning in a babbling brook.

  Sir Rufus dove for his scabbard, seized it, and brandished the sword with a bright, metallic sound.

  “Ah, young knight,” said the Jabberwock, its voice cold and cavernous, “here you are. Just as the poem foretold.”

  “If you know the poem, then you know this conflict does not end well for you,” Sir Rufus called out. “So I’ll give you one chance. Turn around now and leave this Square forever or face the Vorpal blade.”

  “You know as well as I that in Turvy there are no absolutes. The poem could change at any time. Perhaps,” mused the Jabberwock, “it already has.” And the creature moved closer, picking up its tune once more.

  “Sing all you like. I hope the song soothes you through your death throes,” shouted Rufus.

  “The music is for you, Sir Knight. It is your mourning song.” And the Jabberwock rushed forward, a flurry of claws and wings.

  There were several things the poem did not document, Mary Ann noted from her quiet place among the trees. It didn’t say how the Jabberwock shot fiery breath over the knight and how he grabbed up his shield just in time, as heat poured over him, scorching the metal of the gauntlet that braced it.

  The poem also did not detail the way Sir Rufus was swiftly left with no strategic alternatives but to back away from the beast, backing deeper into the wood until a single step sunk him down … down … knee-deep into the marshland, the weight of his armor working so cruelly against him.

  It did not describe the way the Jabberwock was rapidly upon him, claws reaching, song shrieking in the late afternoon air, as Sir Rufus held aloft the Vorpal sword and countered the talons with every strike.

  It also didn’t mention how Mary Ann Carpenter, housemaid and backup squire, looked frantically around, grabbed up one of the hammocks and silently moved behind the hovering creature. She took a deep breath, wished herself fortune and tossed the rope contraption over one of the monster’s flapping, leathery wings.

  The reaction was instantaneous. The wing beat wildly, only tangling itself further in the web of rope, causing the creature to teeter and drop unceremoniously onto the ground of their campsite. In a moment, the monster had whipped around trying to grab at the ropes, but its arms were too short to reach.

  It sent around its long neck and head to finish the job. And that, in its snarling frustration, was when it laid eyes on Mary Ann.

  “Now, where did you come from?” it hissed.

  Mary Ann snatched up the second hammock, picked up her skirt and raced around the beast. Housemaid’s work makes a person quick, light on their feet and strong, yet even so, she only just dodged a blast of flame erupting from the creature’s jaws. The Tumtum tree behind her was not so lucky and shrieked in pain.

  But the Jabberwock was still tracking her. Rufus, she saw, had finally emerged from the marsh onto solid ground and was closing in fast. If she could keep the monster distracted a short while longer, they might be able to …

  She paused and flung the second hammock, aiming for the creature’s head, but the Jabberwock was slippery and swift. The makeshift net careened halfway to its target before the creature opened its jagged maw and set the rope ablaze, mid-air. Orange ashes tumbled to the ground.

  “Silly girl!” cried the creature. “You can’t fool me twice with the same trick.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Mary Ann. “This one has a twist ending.”

  And SNICKER-SNACK! The Vorpal blade did its duty before the Jabberwock knew what hit it. Over and over again, Sir Rufus plunged the blade into the creature’s hide with a slick, sickening, slicing sound.

  The Jabberwock sank down onto the sandy earth. “This … isn’t … the way … the poem went,” rasped the creature.

  “This is Turvy,” said Sir Rufus. “There are no absolutes.”

  The creature was twitching and twisting now. “My name,” it burbled, “never even made … the poem …”

  It hadn’t occurred to Mary Ann that the Jabberwock might have a name. “What is it, then?” she asked, suddenly feeling as sad as she was curious.

  “Tell them …” The blood was running thick and yellow from its mouth now. “Tell them it was … Rumbledring.”

  Mary Ann promised she would, but the creature gave a last shuddering breath and she couldn’t be sure it had heard her.

  And now here was Sir Rufus with the Vorpal sword again. “Move aside. I have to cut off the head.”

  Mary Ann winced. “Oh, but Sir …”

  “Yes?”

  “It had a name.” She used “It” only because she never learned whether it was Madam or Mister Rumbledring, and looking to see would be but one more indignity to the poor, slain creature.

  “See here,” said Sir Rufus, “do you think I like this? Was this how I wanted to spend my Jamberry evening? No. But the head was on the wall of the Manor as long as I can remember. Clearly, I beheaded it.” He frowned. “Or will do. Besides, if we take care of this now, we can reach the road through the Tulgey Barrens before dark.”

  Mary Ann nodded but reluctance must have clung to her face.

  “The lack of head will not affect its current health,” he reminded her.

  He had a point. He had several. So Mary Ann nodded again and moved out of the way. She was packing up the parts of their camp that hadn’t been charcoal-broiled, when she heard the final blow that separated head from neck. And the marshes ran red. Of course, that was their natural color.

  “You have your gear?” Rufus called now.

  “I do,” she said. And as he carried the Jabberwock’s head, she took his saddlebag as well as her own. She was glad to. She had reached her quota for handling decapitations in the past two days.

  “Then we’re off,” he said. “The Jubjub birds may be to bed, but the Bandersnatch still roam. And I don’t know about you, but I prefer never to meet one. Let’s go gather Lolly and Goodspeed.”

  They had not gotten far from camp when they saw it, and if it hadn’t been for the last streams of sun beaming across the woodland plains, Mary Ann didn’t think they would have seen it at all. It was not a Bandersnatch. It looked like someone had taken a pile of rocks and stacked them into a careful pyramid. She pointed out the shape, in silhouette now, to Sir Rufus. “Look! Is that some sort of religious space over there? Or a sundial? It’s rather pretty.”

  But Sir Rufus did not find it pretty. He groaned. “Oh, of all the cursed things … I simply cannot believe …” He gritted his teeth and motioned. “Come along, miss.” And he headed straight toward the structure.

  She followed. “I’m sorry: what are we doing?” She
could see the pyramid more closely now. The objects seemed to be silver-grey, ovoid, with a slight pearlescent sheen.

  They were not rocks.

  “Jabberwock eggs,” confirmed Sir Rufus.

  “But how is that possible?” asked Mary Ann. “I thought there was only one Jabberwock.” She couldn’t imagine how that worked. She rather wished she’d peeked now.

  “You only need one for this sort of thing. Jabberwocks are funny that way. Fortunately, they only lay eggs every three hundred years.” The knight drew his sword.

  It had been a day for interesting Jabberwock tidbits. And now Mary Ann saw the awful truth. “So it was protecting its nest? The poem said nothing about it protecting its nest.”

  “Epic poems leave out much of the fine print,” said Sir Rufus miserably.

  “There must be twenty eggs there,” she said.

  “And twenty future Jabberwocks, if this thing goes forward.”

  Mary Ann knew where he was headed with this, and she understood it. But it still felt wrong. “It’ll be the end of the species then,” she said.

  “Twenty hatched Jabberwocks and it’ll be the end of Turvy.”

  Mary Ann braced herself. “Heroism isn’t very cut and dry, is it?”

  “Sometimes it’s just cut,” he said, and applied the Vorpal sword to the task at hand.

  

  When they stepped inside Carmine Manor, the first thing Mary Ann noted was the empty space over the fireplace in the entry hall that would not be empty for long. The second thing she noticed was the crowd that oozed through the corridors, like a spilled bucket of treacle, into the room to greet them. All the squires had returned and the staff joined, too, everyone clapping and cheering. And emerging from the middle of this merry band of supporters came none other than Lord Carmine.

  “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?” Carmine asked in his most booming voice.

  Sir Rufus squinted at him. “Olde Turvian, Father? Really?”

  “Oh. Well …” The elder man shrugged, “I felt I should keep to the poem. It’s my one bit of dialogue.” He cleared his throat and resumed, “And hast thou —?”