Turning around, she began to go in the direction that she could only assume was up, if there was an up here. Faster and faster her arms went; she used the book as a paddle and felt herself go even faster. It was almost enjoyable, feeling the air rush past her, feeling her body move just as she wanted it to, without fatigue. Even her eyes were becoming accustomed to the brightness and, as she swam, she began to forget.
Why must I hurry? she thought, and let herself slow down. It felt so peaceful here. She was tempted to lie back and let herself be carried farther in by the soft, fragrant air. But there was this nagging in the back of her mind that refused to let her stop, that urged her to return to where she had come from.
She looked around her. Mirrors, mirrors. A woman in black, rope around her neck, thrashing wildly, trying to get somewhere. Her distress concerned Alice, who was cocooned in peace. It was wrapped around her like the lightest down blanket. She closed her eyes and, when she opened them again, the woman was gone.
And then the whispers spoke loudly again, startling her. She had grown accustomed to the quiet murmur; she had almost forgotten they were there. She had almost forgotten everything now.
“Leave,” they whispered, and the coldness that shot through Alice’s body jarred her out of complacency. A burst of icy air by her ear made her whip around, expecting to see someone standing there, breathing down her neck. But she saw nothing more than a tuft of white mist blowing by. She began to hurry again.
“Go back,” said the voices, even louder than before. Frustrated by the endless searching, confused by the mirrors and the reflections, Alice began to grow angry. She was not physically tired, not out of breath, but there was a deep exhaustion inside of her, a weight so familiar and steady that she wondered how long she had been carrying it. She wanted to rest, wanted to forget. And what right did this voice have to dictate her fate? What right did it have to force her to return?
“I don’t care!” Alice yelled at the voices. “I don’t care anymore!”
The voices went silent for a moment, then returned in a chorus, “But you must.”
It wasn’t that the voices had sounded unkind before, but Alice heard something new in them, something quiet and understanding. She had the distinct impression that somehow the voices knew, that they understood her situation better than she did.
“Why?” she shouted anyway, pushing the feeling aside. The mist began to grow thin around her and darkness crept into the white. She almost thought that she could see a wall in the distance.
“The curse will continue, unless you can break it.”
“Who are you?” Alice yelled back.
“It is your duty,” the voices said.
The reflections were dimming, the mirrors growing smaller.
“Who are you?”
Now Alice could almost feel the floor beneath her feet. Her body began to take on weight again; she started to fall.
Just when she was sure that she was free of the mist, Alice sensed a sudden change in the whiteness around her. It convulsed, contracted, and then out of it—out of the heart of it—she saw hands emerge, so many of them, ten, maybe more. They reached toward her and she could not have pulled away even if she had wanted to, and before she could react they had grabbed hold of her—her arms and her legs and her hair. As they did, she felt a startling warmth flood her and suddenly the voices were no longer coming from the mist, but rather from her own head, and she could hear the whispers (only they weren’t whispers now, but thoughts) as they came and went, like the sound of singing birds perched in a tree. Her heart pounded fast, trying to absorb it all, trying to understand.
And then the mirrors in the mist shifted and she saw herself reflected ten times over. Only it wasn’t her. In each mirror there was a different face, a different woman, and she saw them and she knew them because they were in her head and she was them—all of them. All of the women who the curse had killed, inside of her, counting on her, relying upon her. And now, helping her.
In a grand, synchronized motion, the hands pulled back and pushed forward, pressing against her, pushing her out of the mist and into the safety of the house. As they pulled away, she felt the warmth recede and, at the very last moment, before it disappeared entirely, she heard the voices—the thoughts—the women—chant in unison their final good-bye.
“For all of us,” they said.
Her knees hit the solid floor hard and Alice quickly relearned the sharp taste of pain.
***
For many minutes Alice lay on the floor, gasping for air. It seemed that all the bodily fatigue she had not felt while caught in the mist was coming back to haunt her. The diary she kept grasped firmly in her hands, as if it were life itself to which she clung. What had happened in the mist began to fade to simply a confusing blur, as if she had just woken up from a dream and now it was slipping away from her. All she could remember were the mirrors and the white and voices from the distance and the strangest warmth pounding inside of her, fading. A lump in her throat.
After a while, she pulled herself to her feet and left the lobby, which was now almost completely swallowed up by the mist. The library was still untouched and that was where Alice sat down with the diary. Behind her, the clock was chiming the time. Eight o’clock. Had she really been caught in the mist for an hour? She went over to the clock, just to make sure she wasn’t imagining things.
She wasn’t. With growing uneasiness, Alice returned to the couch, unnerved that time could so easily slip away from her. She needed every second of it. Alice bent down and picked up the diary, but just as she was about to open it, she had a horrifying thought. Clutching the book, she ran back out to the lobby and looked into the mirror. Her heart seemed to have gotten lodged in her throat and she thought it might strangle her. When she saw the dark windows, the drawn curtains of the real hotel, her heart sank stone-like back into her chest. Eight in the evening—she had been gone for half the day.
Alice shook her head in disbelief, but the evidence was undeniable.
She had lost thirteen hours. In a little over twenty-four more, she would be sent back to the real world for the last time. And soon after that her parents would let her die.
Determined to lose no more time, Alice returned to the library, opened the diary that had cost her so dearly, and began to untangle the final pages of writing.
***
May 17, 1883
I have decided. The way to break the curse will be through hate—my hate. Only then can the punishment be complete; only then will my hatred be appeased. I have painted a clue into my last portrait. It is so simple, so perfect.
It is still light outside and I am preparing. Tonight is the night. Tonight the curse will be cast. It is a new moon and the darkness is powerful.
Before I cast the curse, there is something I must do. I have been working on it all day, for I must be very careful. I am afraid to scratch the glass. What if I should hurt the witch? But I must get these bars off if I am going to free her. The knife helps, but it is still slow work. I have managed to pry most of the wood off. The witch has been throwing herself at the glass; she is anxious to escape this mirror at last.
I do not think she understands. She believes that I release her to ask her guidance. In fact, I free her to demand her assistance. She will serve me. I used to believe that the witch was powerful, that she was strong and wise. Now I know differently.
The witch was weak and now she is weaker still. The mirror has used her soul to sustain its existence and now she is merely a shadow of herself. She is feeble, and I am strong. But she will still serve her purpose.
Very carefully, I remove the wood—if only you could see how very careful I am. I only use the knife to slice through the very edge of the glue. From there, I use my nails and scrape, scrape, scrape the rest off. Heavens, how my hands are bleeding! The cover of this diary is already quite stained and still they drip.
I have left a trail of blood on the desk. There is but one piece of wood left.
She is free! The witch is free. The minute I pulled the last bar away, she rushed out of the mirror and right out of the room. She is running around on the grounds now. From my window, I can see her popping out from behind bushes and trees, reacquainting herself with her old home. She looks dreadful, I must admit. Her hair is all tangled, her eyes wild. Her hands are bleeding from clawing at the glass.
I called her back. I whistled out the window and she came zooming back into the room, fast as lightning. I have never seen a living creature move so quickly. But then again, I am not sure if she is really alive. Would you believe? I can see straight through her.
The witch helps me to prepare. The rope is already strung from the chandelier. The matches are ready for the fire. I sent the witch to fetch earth from the garden and now she has sprinkled it all over the room. We are ready.
Oh! I hear footsteps in the hallway. Someone is knocking on the door. Perhaps it is Lillian. What perfect timing! I shall welcome her inside.
***
It was not Lillian at the door. It was Father.
What terrible luck. Father was not supposed to have anything to do with this. He should be asleep at this hour, but it seems that he saw the witch peeping into his window. How careless of her! I told her to stay hidden.
When he saw what I had done to the room, my father tried to run. Between the witch and me, we managed to tie him to the bedpost with some of the leftover rope. It is a miracle that we were able to restrain him at all. My father is a very strong man, but the witch is wild and that gives her strength to rival his. I wish that it did not have to be this way, but I cannot allow him to go free. What if he alerted Lillian? My plan would be ruined!
Now we all wait together: the witch, my father, and I. We wait very quietly. The witch put a piece of her dress in Father’s mouth so that he would stop yelling. It is a shame that he had to get caught up in this. But there is nothing that either of us can do about it now. Not even the witch knows how to erase a memory.
Lillian should be here by now. I told her very specifically to come to my room at midnight tonight. I told her that I wanted to tell her a secret. I even hinted that I might show her the witch’s things.
The witch is getting restless. She paces the room, chewing on her bleeding hands. She seems quite distraught.
Back and forth she goes. Back and forth.
Father looks terribly frightened, poor man. He stares at the witch with horror in his eyes. I don’t blame him really; she is a frightening sight. Sometimes he mumbles things, but he can’t make much of a sound through the fabric in his mouth. He fights frantically against the rope tied around his body, but he cannot break it.
The witch has begun to dance now. She is dancing around the room, waving her bloody arms around in the air. She is chanting something in an old and evil language. The words make my skin crawl in the most delightful way. Father doesn’t seem to be enjoying it. He closes his eyes now. I don’t think he can even bear to look at her.
Wait! I hear a footstep in the hall.
Stop dancing, little witch. Stop dancing or she will hear.
And we will fail.
It is the witching hour now.
Come in, Lillian!
Good night, ladies!
***
And then, in small, more careful letters, written at the very bottom of the page:
***
The curse is in motion.
But hope is hard to fell.
If you would escape my fate,
You must understand my hate—
Or you will die as well.
Alice ran her finger under the words as she reread them three times in quick succession. If you would escape my fate, you must understand my hate. Elizabeth had promised a way to break the curse and here it was. Alice felt sweeping triumph, then a quick rush of disappointment.
This was it!
This was it?
But this was only a riddle. Alice tried to dissect the lines but the poem’s meaning was both too obvious and too obscure. The words slipped between her fingers. Hate was the only thing that she could grasp onto. She had to understand hate.
There were several pages left in the diary, and Alice flipped to the next one, hoping against hope that there would be some kind of explanation. But on the page after the riddle, the handwriting changed abruptly. The letters here were slanted and small, with little curlicues on the ends. It was the writing of a lady: elegant and careful. Alice could read these pages easily.
***
I have read through my sister’s journal and I feel obliged to finish it. I suppose it is odd that I should take the time to do this when I fully intend to destroy this diary, but I feel that I must. After today, I will try to forget that I ever had a sister. Elizabeth and the truth of her madness must fade into memory. But before I resolve never to speak of this again, I plan to purge it from my mind.
I will bury the diary, hide the other books. I can no longer bear the sight of fire.
My sister went mad. I do not know if it was the fact that her lover abandoned her, or simply the strain of her last role that finally unhinged her. Either way, it was not entirely a surprise. Madness runs in my family; I will be lucky to escape the scourge myself.
When I saw the signs, I told Father at once and we decided that rest would be the best thing for her. We left her in her room (alone, most of the time), and that may have been a mistake. Elizabeth grew obsessed with the witch who once lived in that attic. I often saw her reading what appeared to be old spell books. Every time, she would attempt to hide them from me, but she wasn’t fast enough. Sometimes when I came into the room, I would hear her talking to herself. On these occasions, I would peep into the room and watch as she carried on entire conversations with the mirror by her bedside. She seemed to believe that the witch lived inside of it. She talked of terrible things—curses and death and murder. Father called the doctor, but the doctor could not be enticed to stay after he saw the state she was in.
As Elizabeth grew worse, I suggested to Father that we commit her to an asylum, but Father would not hear of it. Father, for all of his prickliness, is a soft man at heart, and he always was overly indulgent where Elizabeth was concerned. She was his only comfort when Mother died—she reminded him of Mother so much. Elizabeth always got exactly what she wanted. When she announced that she wanted to be an actress, he scrimped and saved to pay for acting instruction. She was his pet and he doted on her. He even had portraits painted of her in every role that she took on.
That love was the end of him.
When I saw that Father would not listen to reason, I took matters into my own hands and called the asylum myself. Elizabeth, however, was stronger than I expected. She somehow managed to escape from the men who came to collect her. She made such a fuss that Father realized what was going on and called it all to a stop immediately. It was a foolish decision—one that probably cost him his life—but Elizabeth was to stay in the house and he would hear no more on the subject.
After that, I did something rather foolish, I admit. In one of the newspapers, I saw something that made me suspect Elizabeth’s lover, William, had not been a lover at all. According to the press, a man of similar description had swindled a girl in New Hampshire just the week before. I gave the paper to Elizabeth to see her reaction and, when she became upset, I goaded her. I did not expect her to attack me; I did not believe she was that far gone. But no sooner had I turned to leave than she wrapped her fingers around my throat and tried to strangle me. She would have succeeded had Father not intervened just in time. In my anger, I am afraid that I threw a vase at her and rendered her completely unconscious.
That, of course, ruined any chance I had of winning Father over to my side. After that incident, he became even more intractable than he had been before.
Things came to a head last night. Elizabeth had spoken with me earlier in the day, when I went to bring her lunch. She requested that I come to her room at midnight. She said
that she had some great secret to tell me. I was suspicious, but I was also anxious to get back into Father’s good favor, and since the only way to do that was through Elizabeth, I reluctantly agreed. She was very quiet for the rest of the day. I listened at her door every so often, but all I could make out were the oddest scraping sounds, as if she was carving wood.
But when darkness fell, I started hearing strange sounds. They were coming not from inside, but rather from the grounds. I was worried that there might be a thief about and I went to warn Father, but he was not in his room. Thinking that he had heard the sound as well, I went outside to look for him. I had no luck there either, but I imagined I saw a flash of clothes as a person ran from tree to tree. Frightened, I hurried back inside and called the police. Soon I began to hear heavy footsteps upstairs, as though someone was dancing—or leaping. I went to check on Elizabeth.
It was precisely midnight when I walked into the room. There was little light, and at first I could not see much of anything. But when, after a moment, my eyes adjusted, I nearly fainted.
The first thing I noticed was Father. He was tied to the bedpost and gagged. He shook his head at me wildly. Frightened to see him like that, I tried to turn around, but Elizabeth threw me to the side with strength that was frankly inhuman. Before I could recover myself, she had the door closed and locked behind me. Crumpled on the bedroom floor, I had the oddest sensation of sitting on dirt, and upon looking more closely, I realized the floor, the bed, the entire room was covered in soil. It looked as though someone had pulled buckets of dirt from outside and dumped them everywhere.
The Looking Glass Page 19