Hatter

by Daniel Coleman

  A day and a half later, Hatta entered a forest of oak, birch, pine and silkwood. Most trees were bare, but the few that still held some color were needly and thick. The dead leaves underfoot had given up their gold, red, and orange and now formed a dampening brown carpet. Though the loss of color was tragic, Hatta contented himself with the knowledge that the colors would be back come spring.

  To his delight, a fork appeared in the road a couple hundred paces past the first trees. Hatta hurried to the split in the road, but didn’t see anything resembling a cat so he said, “Good day?”

  “Good day, yourself,” said a tenor voice low in the trees. A large-headed cat, with an even larger smile, emerged from behind a tree. It jumped into the fork of a pale tree and lounged along a branch. The gray fur with black stripes had blended into the mat of dead leaves, but stood out vividly against the bark.

  “Mr. Cat? I’m Mr., um…,” Hatta hadn’t thought far enough ahead. “Well you see, I don’t actually have a surname.”

  “Feel free to use mine if you like. And please, call me Cheshire.” The animal’s voice was high like an eleventeen-year old boy, giving the impression of mischievousness.

  Hatta tried the cat’s surname but wasn’t comfortable with it. “Hatta Cat doesn’t seem to fit, but I thank you just the same. Would you be a cat, perchance? Or merely by name?”

  “I’m no more a cat than a prairie dog is a dog or a titmouse is a mouse.”

  Hatta nodded and Cheshire continued happily. “Guinea pig, mongoose, catfish.”

  “As I understand it, a catfish is a fish.”

  “Ah, but it is most definitely not a cat.”

  Sound logic. But the non-cat’s name still puzzled Hatta. “Why are you called ‘Cheshire Cat’, if you are a Cheshire Cat?”

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t call me ‘Man’, or ‘Human’.”

  “But if you were the only one, I wager they would.”

  Cheshire’s argument made sense. Hatta was shocked how easy it was to talk to the creature, even about things on which, at first, they didn’t see eye to eye.

  “You are entirely delightful,” Hatta said. “How is it that you talk?”

  Cheshire tilted his head and smiled wistfully. He trilled, “How is it that other animals don’t?”

  “Oh, but they do! Some of them helped me find food on my way to Palassiren, and a rath spoke loudly at a wedding I went to.”

  The smiling creature nodded. “All animals talk in their way. It’s people that don’t listen.”

  “I’m going to save the kingdom some day,” blurted Hatta. He felt so comfortable with Cheshire that he didn’t mind telling him.

  “Of course you are,” Cheshire said confidently.

  “I am? Sometimes people act odd when I tell them.”

  “As you can see, I am not people. You are more important than even you know, Hatta.”

  He had never received such optimistic praise, and was reluctant to trust Cheshire. Believing too much in his destiny could very well get him in trouble. “How do you know it? Because sometimes I wonder if mad thoughts make me think it.”

  Cheshire considered for a moment then answered, “How do you know when an animal is comical, or hungry, or bored when most people have no idea?”

  “Sometimes I can just tell things.”

  “Ah,” said Cheshire, nonchalantly satisfying an itch on his neck against the bark of the tree. “So can I.”

  Hatta made himself comfortable on the colorless carpet of leaves and the two friends spent hours chatting about likes and dislikes, words and ideas, theories and riddles. Cheshire proved to be expert at both posing and answering riddles, and didn’t seem to mind Hatta’s inability to solve most of his queries.

  As night began to fall, Hatta realized he hadn’t eaten all day. “Would you know where I might find food?” He still had a little from Yendlie, but it made sense to ask an animal that would answer straight.

  “Of course, Hatta. There’s a winterberry patch not far from here.” Cheshire shifted and suddenly all Hatta could see was his brilliant toothy smile. When he closed his mouth Cheshire disappeared entirely.

  The next Hatta saw of the curious animal was a smile reappearing near his feet. As he watched, Cheshire’s body seemed to disengage from the background of dead leaves and walk past him up the trail. It was as if someone lit a Cheshire lamp, though to Hatta’s knowledge there was no such thing.

  “Was that disappearing?” asked Hatta, unsure if his mind was trying to deceive him again.

  “Not really, no. That’s just a little trick I do.”

  “Would it be magic?” asked Hatta.

  “If I could spin a web, would you ask that?”

  Hatta shook his head. “If you were any type of spider you could do that.”

  “What if I squirted ink at annoying predators? Or emitted a noxious spray that could be smelled a mile away? Or excreted a shell so I could get out of the rain? Magic?”

  Hatta shook his head again.

  “So I may be the only species able to turn my colors on and off. Call it what you like.”

  As a demonstration, Cheshire dimmed the color of his fur until it faded to almost nothing, then increased the brightness until the black and gray were almost luminescent.

  Following Cheshire along the trail, Hatta said, “I would think it convenient to blend away when you want to. That’s a trick I’d like to learn.”

  “You could never manage in such vivid clothes.”

  “But I care for colors so.”

  “Well, we all make choices, don’t we?”

  He turned into the trees where no path existed and soon they reached an area brimming with winterberry bushes. Though the berries were somewhat shriveled, Hatta ate voraciously for some time. He only stopped when he noticed Cheshire in the fork of a nearby tree.

  “I thank you, Cheshire. The berries are most delicious.” Unsure of the protocol for interacting with the talking animal, Hatta lightly patted Cheshire’s head, leaving deep purple spots on the gray stripes in the fur. He stared in wonder at his stained fingers and the spots they left. The purple was so pure and intense that he wiped the fingers of his other hand along the light stripes in Cheshire’s coat.

  Cheshire cleared his throat. “If you keep that up it’s going to make blending in very difficult.”

  Hatta apologized quickly and attempted to wipe away the color with his tunic but the color had set. What a remarkable dye!

  With a quick nod of his head, Hatta sent his hat tumbling to the ground then reached for the plumpest berries within reach. Mashing them between his fingers, Hatta covered both hands with the vibrant juice then ran them through his own hair, which was much longer than he realized. Stretching it far enough to see the dyed ends exhilarated him.

  Under his breath he mumbled, “If only one of my mirrors were here.”

  “Ah, yes. Your mirrors. Your magnificent, crucial mirrors.”

  “I think they have something to do with my destiny.”

  “You think correctly, but only as cobbles in your path. The cement is your powerful kindness. I doubt even you can realize the monumental consequence of your kindness.”

  Hatta stared, wide eyes and crooked smile. “Would you be a figment of my imagination? Sometimes my thoughts seem so mad, and nobody ever approves of them.”

  “I am as real as the purple in your hat. And besides, a touch of madness makes life so much more enjoyable, don’t you think?”

  Hatta was torn. Though he never felt happier than the times he was caught up in illogical creativity, it was a major source of conflict with other people. Why does life demand I choose between happiness and sanity?

  Cheshire would be a dangerous friend.

  “Insanity,” said Hatta, still mesmerized by his royal purple hair. “That always seemed the strangest word because it actually means out of sanity. Shouldn’t someone who’s in sanity be very sane? In means out. Curious.”

  “And they think we’re t
he mad ones,” laughed the smiling Cheshire Cat.

  It occurred to Hatta that Cheshire was one of the wisest creatures he’d ever encountered. “How old would you be?” wondered Hatta aloud.

  “I,” said Cheshire proudly, “am exactly as old as myself. Not a day older.”

  “As am I. Which is fifteen years plus the age I was when my brother was born.”

  “So you don’t actually know,” stated Cheshire. “That’s odd, for a human.”

  Hatta nodded. “I can’t remember being born, and my father never told me what day that was.”

  “So when do you celebrate your birth day?”

  “I never have,” said Hatta. “How could I?”

  The smiling animal considered for a moment. “You could celebrate every day. An un-birthday of sorts. It’s only fair after all. You have decades to make up for.”

  The animal’s logic was indisputable. For close to two decades Hatta denied himself a yearly celebration simply because he didn’t know when to do it. He continued to mash berries, eating the pulp and applying the tint to his hair. Though it was difficult at times to force himself into making new friends, it often turned out so wonderfully.

  “I wonder if I might remain with you here for some time.”

  Cheshire’s smile grew woeful. “You have a duty to perform, Hatta. As do I.”

  “What would that be?”

  “To help people such as you on their journeys.”

  “And what duty would I be performing that you would be doing your duty by helping me perform it?”

  “Why, saving the kingdom, of course.”

  Hatta no longer cared whether the creature was real or fake, misleading or reliable, sane or mad. No person in the kingdom made him feel as jubilant as Cheshire did.

  After wiping his hands clean on the bark of a nearby tree, Hatta retrieved his hat from the ground. Tipping it, but not placing it on his newly dyed hair, he said, “I thank you. For everything and everysuch. I do hope we meet again.”

  “Be assured of it, Hatta, for your journey is long.”

  With a pleased half smile, Hatta turned and hiked back to the road. In the dimming light he walked proudly toward Palassiren, silently debating the merits of sanity versus happiness. The choice wasn’t as obvious as it always had been in the past.

  Chapter 15

  Palassiren

  The reception Chism received after walking the mile to the cattle ranch’s farmhouse was nothing like the small town courtesy he expected. He passed a gaggle of boys of all ages spread out in varying tasks, but no one spoke to him. They all had scratches and bruises in addition to scuffed knees that showed through torn pants, and eyes hungry for another fight. He felt like fresh meat, and under different circumstances would have enjoyed sparring a while.

  The woman who came to the door—it took Chism a moment to decide she wasn’t a burly man in a dress—quickly told him she had more than enough boys for one cattle farm. She added that even her boys had boys, every one of them tougher than a scamp whose clothes didn’t fit. And if he didn’t let her get back to cooking for the horde she’d let them prove it.

  Once his back was turned, Burly became more helpful. “Try Mikel’s orchard,” she called. “It’s the big one north of town. I sent my youngest there a few weeks ago and he’s had plenty of work. Mikel’s got no boys of his own there anymore and Stefen will enjoy having a morsel like you around for a while.”

  Chism waved over his shoulder, but didn’t slow down or meet any of the boys’ challenging stares; he had a purpose. Skirting the town, he walked nine thousand four hundred and four steps, and arrived at a small, red brick house surrounded by groves. Compared to the cattle ranch it seemed deserted. The woman of the house, Lira, couldn’t have been more different than Burly, both in looks and demeanor. She was much more interested in taking Chism in and caring for him than offering him work. Her frequent glances told him she was confused by the sword at his waist, but she didn’t mention it.

  Refusing her charity, Chism said, “If there’s no work to be had I’ll look elsewhere, Ma’am.”

  “There’s work,” she said with a sigh. “Give me just a moment and I’ll send you out to my husband with his lunch.”

  Carrying a wicker basket with enough food for four men, he set off to find Mikel by the tangerines, whatever those were. The brawny farmer was glad to see Chism, at first for the lunch, but then for an extra pair of hands.

  “But I can’t pay a man’s wage to a boy.”

  “Let me work a day, and pay me what I’m worth.”

  Introductions were made to Stefen, the young man working alongside Mikel. The resemblance to the family with all the boys was clear, and though he had scars, Stefen lacked the recent bruises and scuffs his brothers and nephews so proudly displayed.

  Probably because there’s no one to scrap with here.

  “Today’s easy enough,” said Mikel a short while later when lunch was finished. “Just picking fruit. Tomorrow you’ll prove your salt.”

  Mikel handed Chism a large bag with a wire-framed half circle at the top opening. When he placed it over one shoulder, the bottom of the sack almost dragged on the ground. The wire held the opening wide in front of him so he could use both hands to pick. Mikel told him to pick any tangerines that were more orange than green and showed him how to twist and pull to avoid plugging them. He watched for a moment as Mikel and Stefen plunged into the trees, arms reaching and retracting rapidly.

  Choosing a tree near Mikel’s, Chism gauged the shades of tangerines. “Is this one ripe?” he asked Mikel and was answered with a quick nod. “But not this one?” He held a tangerine he thought was green.

  Mikel pulled himself out of the foliage. “It’s green, isn’t it? I can’t supervise every piece of fruit.” His tone was not cruel, but it was obvious Mikel thought he was daft.

  From his vantage point on a ladder, Stefen said, “Looks like you’ve hired yourself a genuine tweedle, Mikel.”

  “I’m not brainless,” said Chism, picking a few bright orange tangerines while they watched him. “Just wanted to make sure I had the colors right.”

  “You don’t know green from orange and you claim you’re not brainless?” Stefen was already after the tussle his mother had mentioned, but Chism didn’t take the bait.

  Mikel just gave him a curious look and the three went back to work. For the next half hour the sounds of rustling leaves and grunting men filled the orchard. When his sack was full, Chism struggled to lug it to the large bin, but tried not to let it show. The arrow wound limited the use of his leg.

  Mikel followed up after Chism finished each tree, giving him a wondering look as he gathered the remaining ripe tangerines. “Did these ones insult you?” he asked.

  After a few hours of straining his eyes to judge between orange and green, Chism was relieved to switch from tangerines to lemons. Yellow was much easier to distinguish. It was an issue of brightness with the lemons, not color. By the end of the day Chism looked forward to whatever Mikel had planned for them the next day. It had to be better than dealing with colors.

  Appetizing smells emanated from the house when they approached after the sun had set. The meal spread on the table made Chism think of the time he’d spent in Leis’s house and he was surprised by a pang of longing. But Leis had nothing on Lira’s skills in the kitchen.

  Both homes were a world apart from the house where Chism was raised. These families actually savored their time together.

  Just as they had worked, the three men ate their stew and corn in silence. Lira seemed pleased to have extra people in her home and spent as much time glancing around the table as she did eating. Eventually she took Mikel’s hand and said, looking at Stefen and Chism, “It’s almost like having Tjaden and Ollie back home.”

  Chism choked on a bite of stew at the mention of his training partners’ names and went into a coughing fit. Stefen slapped him on the back harder than necessary, and handed him a cup of water. “Yes, the Tjaden. You’re
sitting at the table of a true hero.”

  Chism knew the words were true; no one doubted Tjaden’s heroism. But he sensed bitterness in Stefen’s voice.

  Lira beamed, but Mikel went back to his meal as soon as Chism regained control. Stefen spoke again. “You can hear all about the harrowing adventure…after dinner?” He looked inquiringly at Lira, who nodded.

  By way of explanation for Chism, Lira said, “Stefen’s heard the story one or two times.”

  “Yeah, only one or two…hundred.”

  When dinner was finished and the table cleared, Stefen excused himself. Lira started immediately into the account without being prompted, beginning with Tjaden and Stefen’s fight at the Swap and Spar, and Chism understood Stefen’s attitude toward Tjaden. Through fourteen months of Elite training with Tjaden, Chism never learned that Tjaden wasn’t a local champion. It was assumed that every Elite recruit was the best their towns or cities had to offer.

  The rest of the story was as accurate as could be expected of the mother of a hero. And she didn’t leave out Ollie’s role in slaying the Jabberwocky.

  For one short moment Chism considered revealing his identity and explaining his association with Tjaden and Ollie. But he didn’t want to explain the rest of the circumstances of his arrival in Shey’s Orchard so he stayed quiet. Mikel had attended the induction ceremony, but either didn’t recognize him, or had chosen to respect his secret. Either reason suited Chism. After Lira’s hospitality, Chism felt bad keeping the secret that would have delighted any mother, but it was for the best.

  The next day at lunchtime, Stefen tossed Chism an orange to go with his lunch. After peeling it and biting into a large slice, Chism saw the smile on Stefen’s face just as he tasted the bitterness of an unripe orange. Without any ripe oranges to compare it too, Chism couldn’t tell it was green. He tossed it aside without any reaction and it was the last time Stefen teased him.

  Five more days passed in Mikel’s employ, which was enough to earn what Chism needed to buy supplies for his trip to Palassiren. Impressed with Chism’s work, Mikel relented on his previous statement and paid Chism twelve coppers, a man’s wages after all.