The Hatter's Wife

by Anna B. Madrise

  As requested, I held the chalkboard up to Trunk-face’s face, with a dancing Chitter spinning pirouettes in front of his sleepy eyes.

  Trunk-face snapped to attention. “Chalk? You have found chalk? How can this be?” One of his gnarly branches reached forward to touch him.

  I snapped the chalkboard towards me, causing Chitter to topple over.

  “Not so fast, yew. You still haven’t told me what I want to know. Are you Time or not?”

  Chitter was less than thrilled with his topple and actually had the unmitigated gall to shake his fist at me.

  Can you believe it?

  Unmitigated? In this day and age?

  I revisited the thought of snapping Chitter in two.

  Snap!

  Snap!

  Keep it together, Maddie. You’re almost there.

  “It is I,” Trunk-face begrudgingly admitted. “I am Time.”

  Ha! I knew it. I will be triumphant.

  “Chitter, may I introduce you to Time? Time this is Chitter, the last of the chalk.” I held Chitter on the chalkboard up cautiously. If Time was going to try and reach for him again, I was definitely going to kick Time in the knots.

  I’m in charge here.

  Chitter doffed an imaginary hat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you—the yew who is Time.”

  “And I you, Chitter.” Time was being on his best behavior.

  Smart tree.

  “This tax is most agreeable.” Time rubbed his twigs together. “If your affairs are in order, you may go to Wonderland.”

  Huh. Just like that.

  Somehow I expected more.

  A fanfare.

  Perhaps a parade.

  Confetti would have been a nice touch.

  “Do we have an accord?” Time was ironically impatient.

  “We have an accord.” I handed the chalkboard, along with a jubilant Chitter, over to Time’s waiting branches.

  No sooner had the piece of slate left my fingertips than the ground below my feet opened up, and I tumbled down into a black hole.

  “Wait!” I cried out, “What about the order of my affairs?”

  Faster and faster I spun downwards.

  In the front of my mind, I wondered if my curls would hold.

  “Goodbye, fair Maddie!” Chitter squeaked out from above me. “Enjoy Wonderland!”

  I heard Time laughing from above.

  Vindictive twig.

  He most definitely had a swatting coming.

  In Topside, there is this overwhelming, goopy-eyed awe that takes over people when it comes to discussing the holes at the bases of tree trunks that transport someone to Wonderland.

  Bleh!

  That . . . that . . . word . . .

  As I was saying, for those who have been there and have lived to come back to tell the tale, they usually relay their experience with a dreadful amount of giddiness that borders on the obnoxious.

  It’s said to be a transformative experience—with cute cupboards, filled with jam, that line the walls of the holes along with adorable, mismatched shelves—completely charming and altogether innocent.

  Lies.

  They all lie.

  Though, I have been falling at a leisurely rate—that much in their stories I can attest to being true. But as far as cutesy cupboards are concerned, whatever hole that starts at the base of Time’s tree is devoid of such niceties.

  This is a wretched hole.

  It’s lined with nothing but tree roots, weeds, and numerous creepy-crawlies that stare out at me with shock and indignation at my descending intrusion.

  I have never apologized to so many bugs in my life.

  Really.

  I mean, how would you like it if all kinds of strangers just dropped in without so much as an invitation?

  It’s a very un-English thing to do.

  I debated taking a nap, but just when I was getting comfortable with the particular angle of my fall, it promptly came to an end—right onto a rosebush.

  Well, I’ll be . . .

  Time’s tree hole may not have been the most pleasant bottom-ward trip, but its accuracy in reference to the Castle of Hearts was spot on.

  You couldn’t miss it, with all its heart-shaped windows, doors, and those hideous red flags.

  Well, I could miss it—if I had seen it before. It is definitely a most tacky castle.

  I’m coming for you, you fat, bulbous ostrich.

  Snap!

  Snap!

  Snap!

  Carefully I brushed myself off, pleased that the particular bush that I had landed in was thoroughly destroyed but thankfully thorn-less.

  Doubly carefully, I reached into my pocket, hoping that my golden treasure was still intact. “There you are, my itty-bitty pretty,” I whispered to the gold box while I lifted the lid.

  The gold pocket watch yawned and then winked up at me.

  I snapped the lid shut while crushing a few more rose blossoms under my Wellies.

  I’ve never been one for roses or sappy hearts.

  Personally, I am more of a spade lady myself—precise, candid, at times quite lethal—but not above a bit of light gardening.

  It was the latter that brought my attention to the red berries on the ground next to the crushed flowers.

  They were yew berries.

  Time’s berries.

  Now they are my berries.

  Unbeknownst to the vindictive twig somewhere above, he had unwittingly let a few of his poisonous fruit fall into the hole along with me.

  I smiled maniacally.

  Castles have kitchens.

  Kitchens have ovens.

  Ovens bake tarts.

  From what I am told, the ostrich just loves tarts.

  Simply can’t get enough of them.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to snap her neck after all.

  “I’m coming for you, Tippery, but first things first, and this thing cannot wait,” I stated out loud, elated at the sound of my own voice again.

  Sigh . . . it never gets old.

  It wasn’t difficult to find the kitchen door.

  Castles can be very predictable—if you’ve seen one castle, you’ve seen them all.

  Topside used to have a castle, but it was built too close to the marsh and therefore sunk up to its second balconies, not to mention it stinks—quite literally. Nobody wants to live in a half-sunk, stinky castle, but I digress.

  I’m back on topic now. Really, I am.

  The reason why the kitchen door was so easy to find was because it had a sign above it which read Kitchen Door painted with red letters—of course—with a teeny, tiny, little heart in place of the dot for the i.

  Hearts! Bleh!

  I hoped that my presence would continue to go unnoticed as I slipped inside, but I was to have no such luck—which, at least, is a touch better than no luck at all—as I came upon two chefs who were fighting like cats and dogs.

  Perhaps it was because they were a cat and a dog, with both of them standing on their hind legs, wearing chef aprons and hats, that they were fighting in the first place.

  I slid into a chair at the table to watch it all play out.

  I do enjoy a good argument.

  “There’s too much cinnamon in the porridge! She hates cinnamon!” the orange tabby spat while stirring a pot on the stove.

  “She loves cinnamon! It’s the cloves that she detests. No more cloves in the porridge!” the spotted dog snarled back while yanking a jar off of a shelf.

  “She does not detest cloves!” the cat hissed.

  “She does not detest cinnamon!” the dog barked.

  Though I do enjoy a good argument, I was getting impatient. After all, I needed to use the ovens, and they were in my way.

  I cleared my throat. “I find that in times like these, it’s best to measure in halves. That way, she can only half hate the cinnamon or the cloves.”

  Startled by my most reasonable declaration, the cat shrieked and jumped up onto the ceiling, while the dog’s hac
kles went up and he started to bark furiously.

  “Who are you?” the cat yowled.

  Gracefully I rose to my full height. “Why, I am the Queen of Spades.”

  It just rolled right off my tongue.

  I could almost see the words tumble onto the floor.

  “The Queen of Spades?” The dog stopped barking, obviously stunned.

  “The Queen of Spades?” The cat detached herself from the ceiling, landing perfectly on her back paws.

  “Indeed, it is I,” I replied, seeing no more need for redundancy. “I’ve come to cook tarts for the Queen of Hearts.” I lifted an apron off of a wall hook and tied it around my waist.

  Clearly, I meant business.

  “Now, to whom am I speaking? It’s impolite not to make proper introductions.”

  The orange tabby spoke up first, “My apologies, Your Majesty. I am Sugar”—she pointed to the spotted dog—“and this is Spice. How may we be of service?”

  Your Majesty.

  I barely heard anything else after that.

  Your Majesty.

  Oh, I could get used to this.

  “You can best serve me by getting out of my way so that I can bake these tarts!” I leveled my gaze at them.

  It was one of my most favorite expressions.

  Come to think of it, it was a very spade-like expression.

  “Believe me, if you don’t get out of my way, decapitation will be the least of your worries.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” Spice, the spotted dog, bowed.

  “The kitchen is yours, Your Majesty,” Sugar, the orange tabby, added before following Spice’s lead. Together they backed out of the kitchen, bowing as they went.

  “Ahh, alone at last,” I said out loud.

  I tingled at the sound of my voice. It was so pretty, so perfectly pitched, so very . . .

  Fine! Fine! Stop yelling at me.

  I can’t help it if it is one of my finer qualities.

  Besides, it’s “Your Majesty” to you; thank you very much!

  I have no time to bicker with you right now.

  I have tarts to bake and a queen to kill.

  There’s no better time than the present to plot the perfect murder.

  I will not bore you with the mundane formalities of baking poisonous tarts. Suffice it to say, they came out from the oven a perfect shade of golden brown and smelled divinely wicked.

  They were angelic tarts—a combination of righteousness and virtue—meant to set the records straight and bring the Queen of Hearts down to where she belonged, which was to be six feet under my feet.

  After all, nobody likes a crooked record. It throws everything off balance.

  I arranged my lethal creations on a red heart-shaped plate—of course—and when I flung open the kitchen door that Sugar and Spice had exited, I found them sleeping on a bench with their chef hats slumped forward on their faces.

  “Wake up!” I called out shrilly.

  Sugar, the orange tabby, shot straight up to the ceiling again, with her fur completely puffed up, while Spice fell off the bench and onto the floor.

  Poor chefs, they weren’t having the best day, and sadly for them, I was about to make it a whole lot worse.

  “It is time for my audience with the Queen of Hearts,” I proclaimed. “Lead the way!”

  Recovering from being scared half to death, Sugar and Spice dutifully did as requested. “Make way for the Queen of Spades!” Sugar and Spice clamored as they marched ahead of me through the castle. “Make way for the Queen of Spades!”

  Gradually we came upon guards, made of cards, that led up to the great chamber. Personally, I found the card-guards to be quite ingenious.

  I mean, think about that—they don’t eat; they don’t sleep. It’s a bloody brilliant use of resources.

  Inwardly, I gave the Queen of Hearts a nod of approval for her paper army.

  Now, I wanted an army of my own.

  Finally, the ridiculously large doors, carved with wooden hearts, were pushed open to the main chamber.

  There she was.

  Through the throngs of her subjects—all dressed in some shade of hideous red—was the Queen of Hearts, squashed into her throne chair, so much so that it looked as if she were to stand up, the chair would come up right along with her.

  A white-haired rabbit blew into a gold horn.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. I knew that hare.

  He was the other hare—the hare that knew where Tippery was stuck at that horrible tea party.

  Mental note to self: do not lose sight of that hare once this is all over.

  I’m coming for you, Tippery, but first things first.

  “Make way for the Queen of Spades!” Sugar and Spice announced one last time before bolting out of the chamber. They were probably headed back to the kitchen to go and hide.

  Not that I blame them.

  The Queen of Hearts had a terrible reputation.

  But believe you me, mine was far worse.

  Things were about to get . . . messy.

  I held my head up as high as I possibly could as the queen’s subjects parted to each side, allowing me to pass. I took immense satisfaction in the fact that I was taller than all of her subjects at court. In fact, I was the tallest person, entity, creature, or otherwise in the entire chamber.

  Oh, this was going to be so much fun.

  As I drew closer to the queen, who had a perpetual scowl upon her face, it was only then that I noticed the King of Hearts, sitting to her right, with a big, striped ear-trumpet coming out of his left ear. He looked half-bored or half-asleep. It was hard to say which was which.

  Hmm . . . this could complicate matters.

  It’s not that I did not know that there was a King of Hearts, it’s simply that my focus had been on his bulbous, fat, long-necked ostrich of a wife, which needless to say—but I am going to say it anyway—has occupied more of my time.

  Okay, most of my time.

  All right, fine! All of my time!

  “Who are you again?” I now had the Queen of Heart’s attention.

  “I am the Queen of Spades,” I replied boldly while meeting her beady-eyed gaze, “and I’ve come bearing tarts for the magnificent Queen of Hearts.”

  Until exactly this moment, it had not occurred to me that there may already be a Queen of Spades or that previous introductions at some point in the past had already been made.

  It was too late now to further contemplate this possible complication.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. Though, the truth be told, I haven’t the faintest clue what a penny is, nor have I ever seen one, but it must be something spectacular to be compared to the formidable British pound.

  “Tarts for me, from the Queen of Spades?” The queen hopped down from her throne and much to my dismay, the chair did not come with her. “Why, this is most unexpected!”

  What was unexpected was that her entire appearance was nothing short of an assault on my eyesight. She was stuffed into a tight-fitting gown of red and black, with her hair dyed the most heinous shade of —I have no idea what that color was—maroon bordering on puce?

  I tried my best not to shudder.

  “The Queen of Shades?” the King of Hearts asked loudly.

  “No, no, no!” the queen replied. “Of Spades, not Shades!”

  “Blades? Whoever heard of a Queen of Blades?” The king was worse off than I thought.

  “Will you be quiet!” the queen snapped. “It’s Spades, not Blades, not Shades, but Spades!” She pulled a card-guard forward—a number seven of spades, to be precise. “Just. Like. This. One. Right. Here.” With the punctuation of each word, she smacked number seven across the back of his head.

  “Ah,” the king replied, but honestly there was no way to tell if he fully understood what she was saying or not.

  My, what a pair they made.

  “As I was saying”—I cleared my throat to reiterate the importance of my words— “I come bearing tarts.”
<
br />   Much to my surprise, the Queen of Hearts snatched up a tart in her greedy little hands. She was no bigger than a small child in comparison to me—albeit an absurdly dressed one—but I digress.

  “Walk with me, Queen of Spades.” The queen clutched the tart, but alas, she did not bite into it. “We have much to discuss.”

  “Who’s making a fuss?” the king spat out.

  “Discuss! We are going to discuss!” The Queen of Hearts was losing her patience.

  “There’s too much dust?”

  The Queen of Hearts threw her hands up into the air whilst still clutching the tart.

  I sighed while following the movement of her hands.

  Remember, patience is a lock.

  I have all day to wait this out.

  I will be triumphant.

  After all, so long as I have that golden pocket watch, time is on my side.

  Will you stop asking me what I am going to do with it!

  That will get here soon enough.

  Now, help me kill this queen!

  “He’s the only one whose head I cannot chop off,” the queen griped before adding in a low and deadly voice, “though some days—like today’s day—I really, really want to.”

  I smiled sympathetically but held my tongue. Which in and of itself is quite the feat whilst also holding onto a plate of poisonous tarts.

  I am a woman of many talents.

  Side by side, we walked out of the chamber and into the rose garden, with a hoard of her subjects following from a safe distance behind. They were all manners of people and creatures, some of whom I recognized from Topside, though, in turn, if they recognized me as the Hatter’s wife and not the Queen of Spades, none dared to speak up.

  Ah, the beauty of a fiendish monarchy.

  “You have impeccable timing, Queen of Spades.” The queen almost—almost—took the slightest of nibbles on the tart but stopped abruptly. “It’s these spade cards—your cards—who cannot paint these white roses red fast enough. As soon as they finish, another white rose blooms. It must be dealt with.”

  “Maybe the roses don’t like to be painted red,” I muttered while thinking that if I had to put up with this fusspot day in and day out, I would also revolt in any way that I could.