A murmur went up from the buzzniks. It was a vague, non-committal hum, neither protest nor assent.
‘Nobody gets their morning fix,’ added the Duchess, ‘until the job is finished. So follow me and let’s have no shilly-shallying.’
As the last echo of her words died in the chamber, the Duchess disappeared through a nearby arch. The buzzniks trailed after her like jetsam caught in the wake of a passing liner.
‘Hey ho,’ said the Mock Turtle, adjusting the angle of his outrageous hat. ‘Let’s go.’
He and Doctor Ormus departed, side by side.
The March Hare hung back, waited to see if the others would follow. He had no desire to involve himself further with the Duchess’s macabre plans; he wanted nothing more than to go home, slip into bed and forget everything that had happened today. But he knew he owed it to Lisa to stick around, find out what she wanted from him.
Taking Shadrack by the hand, Lisa seemed to notice Julie for the first time. ‘You’re that Earth girl I’ve been hearing so much about, aren’t you? I was rather hoping we’d meet.’
‘So was I,’ said Julie. ‘I just wish it was under happier circumstances. If there’s anything I can do… ’
‘Thanks,’ said Lisa. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘Are you going then?’ asked the March Hare. ‘With the others, I mean.’
‘Of course,’ said Lisa. ‘But you’d best head home. This must have been one hell of a day for you, and you look bushed. Thanks for all your help.’
‘Help? I must have caused you more grief than you ever thought possible.’
‘No. On the contrary. You brought Shadrack back to me. And if Ormus is half the scientist he’s cracked up to be, he’ll soon have him as good as new.’
I hope so, thought the March Hare. He could think of nothing more to say, so he turned and headed back the way he came. Lisa was right. It had been without doubt the worst day of his life. Maybe in the morning he would be able to put things into perspective, sort through the day’s events and find that things weren’t as grim as they seemed.
Maybe.
*
Back in his cottage, the March Hare nursed a cup of tea but could not bring himself to drink it. He watched galaxies of dust dancing in the path of moonlight that spilled through his kitchen window.
When the tea had lost all trace of warmth, he tipped it down the sink and then turned his attention to the letter which had been waiting on his doormat. The envelope bore a small crest and the legend, Department of Labour. He tore it open, carefully unfolded the paper inside. It read:
FORM EL.17/b Notification of Employment Allocation
Department of Labour,1-15 Baud Walk,Conundrum C12 X7S.
Dear March Hare,
following your recent loss of employment and inpursuance of the Emergency Labour and War EffortAct, you have been assigned the following post whichyou are required to take up on the first working dayfollowing receipt of this formal notification. Failure todo so will result in your arrest and imprisonment.
POST : Royal Valet.EMPLOYER : His Majesty, the King.ADDRESS : The Royal Palace of Hearts.
Signed,
T.J. Walker (Chief Clerk)
Chapter 10
Of Cabbages and Kings
It was a bad time for solitude. The March Hare knew if he went to bed his thoughts would not leave him alone. They would pummel his mind with an endless array of questions and doubts. Sleep was a distant prospect. There’d be no comfort in satin sheets and cotton pillows.
With remote precision, he folded the government form in half, using his thumbnail to smooth the creases. Then he placed the note on the mantelpiece and went for a walk.
As he left his cottage, he heard a distant cry, a shrill, primal screech like an animal giving vent to some long-suppressed anguish. Chilled by this intimation of a pain too horrible to bear, the March Hare stopped in his tracks and listened. The world was stark. It was shadows and silhouettes gilded by the moon. There was no wind, no movement - nothing to suggest that the March Hare was not the last sentient being in the world.
After long minutes, he was satisfied that the cry would not sound again. He hoped that whatever had called out had laid its ghosts to rest and found peace. And yet, as he walked on, he wondered if t had indeed been a cry of pain. Could it not have been laughter - brief but sinister? Course, manic hysteria such as a madman enjoys at the height of delirium?
He strolled on down the road until he came to the Mad Hatter’s cottage. The Mad Hatter was sitting on the lawn, his back against the oak tree, his hands in his lap. In front of him, his penny-farthing bicycle stood like a monument, perhaps to the remains of his tea-party scattered amongst the grass and flower beds. Old tea bags hung from rose bushes, strange fruit that would never blossom. The Mad Hatter let out a long, heavy sigh.
In his top hat and tails, he looked like a parody of an undertaker. ‘I can’t sleep,’ he announced as the March Hare kicked aside a fairy cake and sat down beside him. ‘On nights like this, I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again.’
The March Hare nodded his understanding. ‘I ache all over. Every fibre in my body is begging me to sleep - and yet I can’t.’
‘Do you know what day it is?’
The March Hare shook his head.
‘Scatterday, the thirteenth of Audacious.’
‘So?’
‘I’ve always wanted the thirteenth of Audacious to be my birthday, but somehow it never works out that way. Year after year, I find myself having my birthday on the same old day - the Eighth of Obelisk. It’s tedious. I wish it would change.’
‘Do you suppose,’ said the March Hare, ‘that I’m getting older?’
‘We’re all getting older, my friend. Why should you be the exception? Has Mother Nature granted you immunity?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just that I’ve never had a birthday.’
‘Never?’
‘How could I? I was never born. According to Doctor Ormus, I’m some sort of clone with genes that are part human, part hare. Everything that makes me what I am came from bottles in a laboratory.’
‘You don’t know that. Nobody’s ever been able to prove it. There are plenty of other theories knocking about.’
‘Which one do you favour? The one advocated in The Origins of the New Species?’
‘Spontaneous creation? No, that’s daft. It’s like saying you can make tea without tea leaves.’
‘So where are my parents? Why is there only one March Hare? One Grey Squirrel? One Penguin, one Badger, one Panda?’
‘There are plenty of flamingos and gerbils.’
‘But none of them have parents. They were all found with the rest of us.’
‘What a day that was,’ said the Hatter. ‘I remember seeing it on television - endless shots of baby animals, all furry and vulnerable and so cute I could’ve puked. In fact, I think I did puke.
‘And then there was that famous newspaper picture of you and the White Rabbit. You were asleep in his arms and he was looking at the camera with the goofiest grin ever.’
‘And we all wore name badges. Mine just said MARCH HARE. The hedgehogs, flamingos and gerbils were numbered from one to a hundred.’
‘That’s right. I’d forgotten about that.’ The Hatter plucked a blade of grass, rolled it between his fingers. ‘You know what I thought at the time? I thought we were being invaded from outer space by a race of sentient cuddly toys. I figured that one dark night you would all grow fangs and start shooting death rays from your eyes. And I’m actually on record as saying that you’d all turn out to have green blood and at least three hearts.’
‘And all this happened shortly after Peregrine Smith disappeared. Somehow I don’t think the two events are entirely unconnected.’
‘You think he created you?’
‘I used to be sure of it, but I’ve heard so much evidence to the contrary that I’m now confused.’
‘After he died, they searched his laboratory. There’s no doubt
he was doing some weird stuff with animal cells, but there’s nothing to show he was capable of creating his own life forms.’
‘You know what I think?’ said the March Hare. ‘I think Smith faked his death. And I think he had a secret laboratory which was never found.’
‘What makes you say that?’
The March Hare wanted to tell the Mad Hatter about the events he had recently witnessed in the Velvet Underground. Ormus and the Mock Turtle had spoken of a very good facility close by. It was where they had taken Shadrack. And the Doctor had clearly stated that it had been used by Smith.
‘Let’s drop the subject,’ said the March Hare. ‘Perhaps it’s not really important how I came to be here. Life’s a mystery to everyone.’
‘Some more than others,’ said the Mad Hatter.
The March Hare unbuttoned his waist coat. A speck moved across the face of the moon. He pointed it out to the Mad Hatter who gazed up and rubbed his chin.
‘I wonder if that’s a shooting star,’ said the Hatter. It was too slow, too dark.
‘Could be a hot air balloon,’ suggested the March Hare. ‘Or an enemy airship.’
‘This far from the War Zone? It seems unlikely.’
The speck drew away from the moon. As it came closer, it slowly took on a definite and familiar shape.
‘A sea gull,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘An enormous great sea gull.’
‘It’s the Albatross,’ said the March Hare who was now able to identify the source of the cry he had heard earlier.
‘I thought we’d seen the last of him,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘Wherever that bird goes, there’s trouble and calamity. I hope he’s just passing through.’
‘I think he’s leaving now.’
The Albatross suddenly veered to the right, gave a mighty flap of his wings and disappeared beyond a nearby hill.
Once more it screamed, but this time the March Hare was left unmoved. ‘I’m tired,’ he said, turning on his side. ‘I’m going to sleep.’
The Mad Hatter got to his feet and went indoors.
While the March Hare slept, night moved on, leaving the cosmic door open for dawn to slip quietly in and prepare a new day. That day consisted of brilliant sunshine and a soothing breeze.
He woke to the sound of birdsong and the smell of stale food.
Shading his eyes against the rising sun, he spotted the Mad Hatter sitting at the table, enjoying a cup of tea.
‘Good morning.’ said the Hatter, seeing his friend awake. ‘I trust you slept well. I slept like a kitten myself.’
The rings around his eyes called him a liar.
‘What time is it?’ asked the March Hare. He slowly got to his feet, fighting stiff muscles all the way. ‘I have to get to the palace this morning. The King’s given me my old job back.’
‘There’s time enough for that,’ replied the Hatter. ‘You really must have a cup of tea before you go anywhere. I insist upon it.’
The Hatter’s best ceramic tea pot sat on a silver platter at the head of the table. Steam rose from its spout like the softest of sighs. Without waiting for further invitation, the March Hare poured himself a cup and splashed in generous amounts of milk and sugar. The first sip grabbed his throat like a firm hand shake.
The Mad Hatter helped himself to a biscuit. ‘The summer goes on and on like a daytime soap opera. It’s hard to think in terms of Time any more. So I retreat into poetry and regard every day that passes as a stanza.’
‘Oh,’ said the March Hare.
‘Last night, when you were asleep,’ the Mad Hatter continued, ‘I composed a poem. Perhaps you’ll allow me to recite it to you?
‘It’s called Last Night, on account of that’s when it was written and that’s what it’s about.’
Placing his tea cup on the table, the Mad Hatter spread his arms and began to recite:
‘Last night someone killed my guitar;
‘They drowned it with minor chords.
‘I found it in my swimming pool,
‘With all my old records
‘Last night we laughed at rock’n’roll;
‘I told you it was dead.
‘You said you’d lost your lust for life,
‘But I found it in my bed.
‘Last night I saw Love fly away,
‘On wings of burning chrome.
‘I turned to ask you the reason why,
‘But I found myself alone.’
‘It’s a love poem,’ said the March Hare.
‘Yes. I suppose it is.’
‘What inspired you?’
‘The Albatross. There was something in the way he flew - a cold determination, I think - which suggested he would never again return. And it was as if he was taking with him a part of me which I once cherished but had forgotten about.’
‘Which part would that be?’
‘My innocence.’
The March Hare smiled at the Mad Hatter’s unwitting irony. ‘The Albatross as a symbol of innocence? You don’t know him very well.’
‘No better than I knew my innocence. I sometimes wish I could start my life all over again. There are so many things I would do differently.’
‘We all feel that way now and then.’
The Hatter sighed deeply. His eyes misted over, presenting the March Hare with a rare sight; the Mad Hatter looked deeply miserable. ‘If you only knew the burden I carry. Responsibility can be a terrible thing.’
He got up and went indoors. The March Hare had no time to consider those final, cryptic words. It was time to head for the palace.
*
The Hall of Balconies had in recent years become the King’s favourite retreat. It was the one room in the palace his wife refused to enter.
Despite its name, the hall boasted but two balconies. They were both situated at the north end, perched like eyebrows above an ornate door which led to what had once been a torture chamber. The door was locked; it had not been opened for more than three centuries, and speculation as to what lay beyond was invariably gruesome and vivid.
Whether it was out of a genuine love of science, or whether it was a simple ruse to keep Her Majesty the Queen at bay would be difficult to say; but the fact of the matter is that, upon his sixtieth birthday, the King had suddenly declared a keen interest in arachnology - the study of spiders. To this end, he had set aside the Hall of Balconies for his own use and filled it with row upon row of glass tanks.
The King’s domain had shrunk from a Kingdom to a room-full of spiders. About two million of them. He had started with three hundred, representing some forty species from twelve countries and three continents. There had even been a pair of rare arctic funnelwebs, brought from the Northern Plain by a seal hunter who’d had little idea of their scarcity or value. Alas, the funnelwebs were no more. In a vignette of great irony, the female had devoured the male and then died of food poisoning. Arctic funnelwebs do that a lot. It’s what makes them so rare.
Upon his arrival at the Royal Palace, the March Hare was directed to the Hall of Balconies. It was not yet eight o’clock but the King had been driven by insomnia to visit his lair long before the crack of dawn. And so it was that the March Hare found himself knocking on the most avoided door in the palace.
He tapped three times, waited, and then tapped again. A deep, ponderous voice reverberated through the mahogany door, it bade him enter.
The King was at his desk, eating breakfast. His huge bulk loomed over a bowl of cereal, dominating it the way a mountain dominates a lake. By palace standards, it would have been a fairly mundane scenario but for the dissected spiders pinned to the desk.
The March Hare bowed. The King seemed not to notice. Sunlight spilled through low, narrow windows, bestowing glistening glory upon a forest of spider silk. Strands of gossamer vibrated as their builders awoke and took up position in readiness for the first kill of the day.
The King dropped his spoon. The March Hare picked it up and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
‘If his
Majesty will excuse me one moment, I will hasten to the kitchens and bring him another spoon.’
Shaking his head, the King held out his hand. ‘Give.’
‘But, sire, it would be most inadvisable to use this spoon now that it’s been on the floor. Just think of the germs.’
‘Cornflakes,’ said the King. ‘Just think of my cornflakes. How long will it take you to bring a clean spoon?’
‘No more than a minute, Your Majesty.’
‘A bit more than that, I think.’
‘Well, maybe two - perhaps even three. But definitely no longer.’
‘And what, in the meantime, will happen to my cornflakes? Will they not absorb the milk and become soggy? Do you expect me, your sovereign, to burden my already-troubled digestive system with flaccid cornflakes?’ The King slammed his fist on the table, throwing up a tiny cloud of dust. ‘I cannot conceive of anything less pleasing than a gutful of mushy breakfast cereal! Now give me that spoon or I’ll have you flogged!’
Reminding himself about the better part of valour, the March Hare returned the spoon then turned away and feigned and interest in a row of eight tanks, all marked with a red cross. A sign on each of them warned: Feed only as instructed - see log for details.
The King finished his cornflakes and then attracted the March Hare’s attention by tapping his bowl with his spoon. ‘Don’t bother clearing the table just yet. You can do it later. First I want to talk to you.’
‘Sire?’
‘Sit down.’
‘There’s no chair.’
‘Then stand.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘I’m getting mightily pissed-off,’ said the King, ‘with the way I’m being treated in my old age. Once upon a time, I actually had some say in the running of this kingdom. Nobody questioned it. Why should they? By the grace of God, I was King and that was an end to it. People knew that Kings and Kingdoms have a special function. Together they serve the people - provide a framework of tradition in which everyone can work and live without worrying about sudden changes in the order of things.
‘Straighten your shoulders, boy. You’re a Royal Servant, not some hick yokel from way out yonder. Let’s see some dignity.
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