by Jenn Thorson
“Where are you headed?” she asked it.
“End of the line!”
“Which line?”
“Punchline, of course,” shouted the creature. “No, no, I can’t stay. It’s not here and timing is everything, don’t you agree?”
Mary Ann had no time to agree or disagree before it sprinted off.
She turned to Sir Rufus. “You don’t think that could be your sense of humor, do you?”
“No,” he said, looking horrified at the prospect. “Mine takes its time and laughs at its own jokes. Wait, where are you going?”
“I never could resist a good punchline,” Mary Ann called, propping her sword against the fence and trailing after the creature.
“But we’re right in the middle of — Oh, son of a Bandersnatch.” He slung the Vorpal sword into its scabbard. “Wait for me.”
They trailed it all the way to Tulgey Barrens before they lost the creature, somewhere between a toadstool and a toad sideboard.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” grumbled Rufus scanning the brush. “Next time, perhaps you’ll heed me before you run off chasing —”
Mary Ann put up a hand. “Shh. Listen.” She could hear voices off to the left. “That way.”
“The Wabe’s that way.”
“Yes, and this is a one-Wabe street,” she said, and ducked down the path.
The clearing was busier than Mary Ann had ever seen it. Representatives from Lord Carmine’s guard were milling about, some clustered in knots, some jotting things down, and all of them pondering about the large number of green, scaly, snouted creatures sprawled lifeless and dewy in the wet grass. There must have been thirty of them.
Rufus stepped forward, stress in his voice. “Great gryphons, what’s happened here?”
“Be with you in one moment, Sir,” said a uniformed guardsman as round as he was tall. The badge at his collar read, “D.I. Tweedle.” He’d been talking to someone and Mary Ann realized the individual in question, blocked by the guard’s personal self, was none other than Douglas Divot.
“So you say you were in your current domesticile, then, at the time of the incident?” asked Tweedle.
“Why, yes, sir,” said Divot. “I had just sat down to a bite of cheese. I’d gotten this charming dulled cheddar from a lovely shop in Square Five earlier in the week — Weeze’s Cheeses, have you heard of it? — when I heard the most awful commotion above.”
Tweedle wrote that down. “Would you describe it something along the lines of an ‘outgrabe,’ sir?”
“I would not,” said Douglas. “The raths have been outgrabing for days, it being their mating season. And this sound was nothing of the sort.”
“Then in your own words, please describe the sound.”
“This was like a moaln, or perhaps a shriell.”
“Moaln or shriell,” Tweedle murmured, jotting that down, too. “Right. And then what?”
“Well, like I said to the other fellow, I came upstairs to see what the hubbub was about and there were all these raths, bent over, twitching, making this gorrible racket. So I sent a rocking horsefly to you all about the situation, and here we are.”
“And during that time, they …?”
“They expired, Mr. Tweedle,” said Douglas.
“And is that bowl always there, sir?” Tweedle asked, indicating an empty, shallow dish the size of a knight’s shield.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen that bowl before,” said Douglas.
“And do you recall, what was in this bowl when you arrived on the scene?” Tweedle asked.
“Nothing, Mr. Tweedle. Nothing was in this bowl.”
Tweedle nodded. “And who did you see put the Nothing in the bowl, sir?”
“Nobody,” said Divot. “I saw nobody. I keep telling you.”
“Right.” Tweedle turned to one of the guards. “Put out a warrant for Nobody. We’ll want to bring him in for questioning about the Nothing and where he got it.”
The guard said, “Right away, sir!” and exited down the path.
“See here —” said Sir Rufus, tired of being ignored for so long. “What is —”
“We’ll be with you in good time, Sir,” said Tweedle, not even looking at him. “Important Square business, this is. Now,” he turned back to Douglas. “What was —”
Another man stepped in. “— Your relationship to these raths?” He looked much the same as the first man, just as round and as tall, the very same broad face, the part in his hair sweeping the opposite direction. Only his badge said, “D.M. Tweedle.” And his eyes were narrowed on the tove before them.
Douglas looked from Tweedle to Tweedle and said, “Well … I … I was their neighbor.”
“And did you get on with these raths?” asked D.M. Tweedle.
“Well, yes, many of them.” Douglas twiddled his claws nervously.
Tweedle leaned down and looked him in the eye. “But not all of them, sir?”
“Well, you know … one gets on better with some people than others, of course. There were a frightful lot of them living here and —”
“Funny, then,” said D.M. Tweedle, stroking the spot where his chin would be, were there any actual separation between his face and neck, “how there’s several many less raths now.”
“Yes,” said D.I. Tweedle, “most hilafrious, I’d say, there being more fewer now.”
“Hysterrible, even,” said D.M.
“Are you implying something?” asked Douglas, eyes fearful.
“Did you not lodge a complaint to one…” D.M. checked his notepad, “Rory Romulus Rath of Nineteen and a Half East Wabe on the second of Jamberry?”
Douglas inhaled sharply.
“Well …?”
“Well …” The tove tugged at his collar. “I might have gone over and asked him quite politely to cease tossing his bathwater out on the main lawn. I mean, that spot, it’s my ceiling, you know. And I’ve been having trouble with it and was getting some damage to —”
“We have witnesses that say you ‘had your pollen up’ about it, Mr. Divot.”
“My what?” Douglas’ ear twitched. “I might have been a bit emphatic about the topic but certainly not in such words, no.”
“ — And that you gave him a right talking to and told him if it happened again, you’d be picking off his petals before Lord Carmine in a public dispute case.”
Douglas whirled on a patch of nearby tulips. “You awful gossips,” he hissed.
The tulips shrugged and turned their backs on him.
“So you do deny these statements?” asked D.I. Tweedle.
“No, I don’t deny it,” said Douglas, “but that doesn’t mean I planned to kill him and his whole family.”
“See here now,” said Sir Rufus, “are you suggesting this tove is a mass murderer?”
Finally, the Tweedle turned to him. “Ah, Sir Rufus! Greetings! Middle of the morning to you.”
But the knight would not be deterred. “I repeat: are you suggesting this tove killed all these raths?”
“To answer your inquizzation, D.M. Tweedle and myself are not suggesting anything as of this momentous moment. We are merely gathering the evidentiary cluedoms of the incidental peculiarities,” said D.I. Tweedle.
“And the peculiar incidentals,” added D.M. Tweedle.
“Preciseably!”
If Sir Rufus would ordinarily have found the pair charming, he certainly wasn’t in the mood to do so now. His jaw clenched. “This tove is a good friend of Father’s. He was instrumental in the Battle of Square Four. He’s a subterranean architect of unmatched genius and a Square treasure.”
“Nothing to worry about right now, Sir,” D.I. Tweedle assured him.
“Indeedly,” affirmed D.M. Tweedle, “we’ve got a watch out for Nothing. We’ll know more once Nobody’s been rounded up and debriefed.”
“And with that, we’ll have to ask you to please step aside, Sir and Miss. This is a crime seen, you know. And as soon
as we find out who seen it, the sooner we can go home for a nice evening of pugilism and polishing our rattle collection. Tell your father, Sir Rufus, we’ll have his report ready for him tomorrow morning.”
8
“Ridiculous,” Sir Rufus was muttering. “That anyone could possibly think Mr. Divot would off half his neighborhood on account of noise and wastewater violations … It’s beyond absurd. It’s … it’s … supersurd, really.”
“From what I know of him, I’m inclined to agree,” Mary Ann said. She’d been mulling over the topic as they’d journeyed back to the Manor. They were currently doing a combination of running, hopping and walking backwards in order to reach their destination. “Which leaves us with the curious issue of what did happen to the raths.”
“Mass suicide, perhaps,” said Rufus darkly. “The mating scene may not be what it once was. Also, living in a soggy hill, eating swallows and shellfish every night — it can’t be too inspirational. The hopelessness, the lack of variety, the squishy socks …”
Mary Ann thought perhaps he was projecting, but she did not say as much.
Indeed, they went the rest of the way in silence and Mary Ann was glad for the quiet reflection, for something within her felt unsettled in a way she could not explain. She entered the Manor as if she’d never left and continued her day’s chores, just as ever she had. Yet the sword work had been so mentally stimulating and physically exhilarating that something felt changed within her.
On further consideration, she realized what it was. It had never occurred to her until this moment that being a housemaid was not a specific requirement for her as a vocation. She’d no idea until she came to Carmine Manor that she could carry any piece of her heart beyond the woodwork and the good work of washing and stoking and sweeping and spending her whole life in half-light, half visible. And the very idea that it could be otherwise was so terrifying, so laughable, so absolutely mad that she had to scrub it from her mind like the good housemaid she was, for fear the stain might set. And then where would she be?
So unnerving was the concept, that she felt infinitely grateful to hear the buzz among the servants; Lord and Lady Carmine had been invited to Queen Valentina’s Unbirthday party in a week’s time. And this news was a relief because it shone light on the proper order of things once more. Everyone was very excited about the preparations that needed to be made for their departure: wardrobe chosen, garments stowed, the carriage polished, horses prepped and delights for the taste-buds packed for the journey. Lady Carmine’s personal maid, Celeste, could not speak enough about how lucky she was she could attend this fine event, even if it were in a somewhat diminished capacity. As if just being in the same fragrant air as Queen Valentina and her court would fortify her.
“Why, we’ve never been invited before, and this is supposed to be her largest Unbirthday celebration ever! My sister lives in Neath, and she said there will be ice sculptures twenty feet high! And tarts and cakes and fizzy drinks and treacle fresh from the well and everyone dressed in their finest of finery, candy floss gowns and lovely codfish hats and the latest quadrilles. Also tarts and cakes.”
“So you mentioned,” said Mabel, the parlor maid, flatly, who appreciated a good cake now and then but not a vicarious one.
“Well, you wouldn’t enjoy yourself, anyway,” said Celeste, adjusting a hairpin. “You’ve never been one for large gatherings. Besides, someone has to stay and keep the home fires burning. You’re all so good at that.”
Mabel grumbled under the half-compliment and Emmaline argued the point in open envy, but Mary Ann found the rigid social order of it all soothing. She walked away from her colleagues humming an old Turvian jig, applied herself to the stubborn grout of the tile floor around a fireplace and said three cheers for home fires and hierarchies. She suspected a good bit of her gratefulness also stemmed from the distance that would be assured between Jacob Morningstar and herself. He would be far away and occupied in Neath, and she could contemplate her next steps from the relative safety of Carmine Manor. She had a strange suspicion her mysterious midnight visitor might be otherwise swept up in the festivities, as well.
Then she recalled the little problem of the mirror.
Oh, that cursed mirror … Mr. Rabbit still needed it, and its delivery had already been delayed several days. She’d been hoping to find out more about the object before dispensing with it. But one did not turn up to an Unbirthday party for the Queen of Neath without a token of one’s esteem — particularly not when one was the Queen’s herald. Perhaps the fellow had found an alternate gift by now. But Mary Ann knew the gentleman’s tendency to panic first and solve never. She did not wish to simply wait and hope that Warren Rabbit would show previously undemonstrated initiative and extract himself from his own problems. If she did not take action, she would be sinking a decent rabbit in the stew in a very factual way.
There were several issues associated with transporting the mirror, however, which she pondered the rest of the day. The main problem was that the piece was large, fragile and heavy. She would be able to carry it for some distance, but it would take considerable time and energy to move it safely all the way from her father’s workshop in Turvy to Mr. Rabbit’s cottage in Neath. The original plan had been for her father to assist her in this task. A two-person mirror-moving maneuver at minimum. Borrowing a wheelbarrow or even a horse from Lord Carmine would draw attention to both its absence and hers, so that was not an optimum solution, either. It was only as she was climbing into bed, she came up with an answer to her challenge that met all requirements satisfactorily.
“It’s what?” asked Sir Rufus the next day, scratching the back of his neck.
“A quest,” said Mary Ann, beaming. “A training quest. I know you’ve read epic poems. So you know knights do these things all the time. They go off in quest of a magical object and deliver it where it belongs. This is one of those.” She tucked her long, plaited hair up into a squire’s hat (she’d pinched someone’s garb from the wash), and she jammed it down on her head.
“So, like retrieving a magic chalice and giving it to a chosen king?” Those pinpoint blue eyes regarded her suspiciously.
“Yes. Exactly so,” she said. “Only our chalice is technically wall decor and our king is a bit on the fluffy side.”
“‘A bit on the —’?”
“Don’t let that put you off. Remember: a good knight does not pick and choose his epic errands.” And Mary Ann led a saddled Goodspeed from the stall.
“Perhaps,” said Rufus uncertainly, taking the reins, “but a good day is me back in time for dinner and not on some wild goose chase.”
“No goose,” she said, assisting him onto the back of Goodspeed, “rabbit.”
“Rabbit?!”
“It’ll be good for you, fresh air and a quest. Hones your skills and chases the blues.” She climbed up on Lolly, a task that, she had to admit, was much easier to do in squire’s trousers. “You sulk when left to your own devices. It’s important to keep your mind off things.”
“The insolence,” he said, with an amazed shake of his head. “I swear, I have never had a squire speak to me so.”
“Too true. But then, I am not really a squire.” Mary Ann smiled. Hadn’t she wanted that comforting hierarchy just yesterday? Where did this outrageous behavior of hers keep coming from? She’d have to have a long talk with herself about it later. “Are we ready?”
He sighed. “Fine, I’ll do it,” and put up a gauntleted finger. “But I want it noted, there’s something very bunny — er, funny — about this whole thing.”
“You’re quite right. Very bunny indeed. So let’s hop to it. I’ll make up — um, tell you — the details along the way.”
Keeping the quest theme going took somewhat more imagination than Mary Ann had anticipated. The standard premise of these types of adventures naturally involved navigating shaky, rope-bare bridges, outwitting neighborhood monsters with riddle fixations, and climbing castle walls —anything to prevent one fro
m reaching the magical item in question too soon.
So Mary Ann took Rufus the worst way round to her father’s cottage — an old trail that came and disappeared on whim, sometimes being woods and sometimes being a tiled and paneled hallway. And she spent the bulk of that time commenting on non-existent footfall behind them, the suspicious cracking of branches or creaking of doors, and asking him if he spied this or that mysterious figure ducking behind the tremulous Tumtum trees (or hall trees) ahead.
By the time they got to Rowan Carpenter’s workshop, Sir Rufus of Square Four was jumping at the buzz of bees and brandishing his sword at snapdragons. It didn’t do much for the poor man’s anxiety, but it did draw him out of his depression.
She was starting to feel a little ashamed about her tactics, as the charade he endured was neither kind nor fair. But telling the fellow he was doing a noble deed by helping rescue a rabbit from the perils of poor gift planning never would have gotten the thing done at all. Anyone could see that. It was the simple fact that the truth lacked oomph.
Of course, there at the workshop, Sir Rufus had oomph enough for everyone. Especially, if you asked the red squirrel that happened to be sitting at the doorstep, munching a seed. Mary Ann imagined the dear thing had never seen the likes of it, a knight leaping from his steed, sword drawn, red banner flying, telling the rodent its magical disguise would not fool him and to step aside, monster, and let him pass.
Yes, really, once you get these things rolling, they pretty much run themselves, thought Mary Ann as the squirrel squeaked off.
“It didn’t give me a riddle,” said Rufus, disappointment sinking his tone.
“The least it could do,” observed Goodspeed over his shoulder. “Never trust a squirrel.”
“Well, I’m sure it would have loved to,” said Mary Ann, trying to think of a proper reason why. “It probably had … um … a second knight job to get to.” And she opened the workshop door.
Once they picked up the mirror, the task was rather straightforward. They lashed it to the back of Goodspeed, then made the trip from Turvy to Neath as efficiently as the land would allow. And soon, they were trotting down the path to Mr. Rabbit’s home.