Hatter

by Daniel Coleman

  Chism spoke for the first time. “It’s not that simple, Hatta. Those sentinels we passed when we entered the camp aren’t just watching for the enemy. They’re also guarding the draftees. If anyone tries to leave they’ll catch and hang them.”

  Appalled, Hatta said, “But they’re all on the same side.”

  With a pained look, Tellef said, “As far as I’m concerned, there are no sides. I’d be tending my inn if I had my druthers, but what the boy says is true. We could try resisting the soldiers, but there’d be blood, and not a little bit. Our best hope is to go along with the army, and hope it never comes to fighting.”

  Nodding, Mikel said, “But that looks less likely every day. I don’t know what’s gotten into the nobles’ heads. I was always of the opinion that Lady Cuora was fair and competent, but now there’s too many queens of this or that, and such-a-color kings.”

  “But you’re so many,” pleaded Hatta. “If you were to put down the weapons and walk out of camp,” he trailed off.

  Both men shook their heads, and Tellef spoke. “A group of men from Arrula tried exactly that. A dozen ended up hanged, with the rest spread out so no two of them could conspire. Now, not only are they forced to fight, but they have to do it without any friends or family around.”

  Mikel was looking past Chism at a lifeless man sitting against the trunk of a tree. When he noticed Chism’s stare he gestured to the man and said, “Jeor there is from Arrula. Watched his brother hang.”

  Predictably, Hatta’s face paled and he clutched his gut. Tellef offered an arm of support, which Hatta leaned on as he wiped his eyes. He looked at Chism, obviously considering the loss of a brother, and Chism felt a sliver of hope that Hatta would abandon his mad quest.

  “It’s not too late to leave, Hatta. I can find a way past the guards.”

  Hatta shook his head. “Not until we’ve done what we came to have done.”

  It would do no good to ask what that was. If Hatta ever had a plan to begin with, he departed from it eventually.

  A man Chism had seen once or twice in Shey’s Orchard approached and without speaking, he and Hatta warmly embraced.

  “Master Aker,” said Hatta, sounding much less cheerful.

  He must know him well to recall the name so quickly, thought Chism.

  “So you’re caught up in this mess, too?” said Aker.

  “Oh, no. I’m just the White Messenger.”

  All three townsmen looked around, but Hatta’s words hadn’t drawn any interest. “You should keep talk of the Whites quiet in this camp,” warned Aker.

  “Yes, I suppose I best.” Continuing with trademark innocence, Hatta announced, “I saw Elora in the palaces. Lady to a Lady she was, and I delivered your letter along with a mirror. Little did I know I’d be in the messenger business again so soon.”

  “Thank you, Hatta,” said Aker. “She sent a letter after leaving Palassiren. As far as I know she’s still attending the White Queen.” He looked in the direction of the White army.

  “Speaking of, my next message is for that very woman. Best of luck, and I hope you find the means to quit soldiering soon.” With his trademark crooked smile, he left the trio watching his back. He never could bear lengthy goodbyes. Chism nodded his farewell and hurried to catch up.

  After fourteen steps, Hatta suddenly turned and ran back to Aker. Digging in his coin purse, Hatta produced a few coins and pressed them into Aker’s hands. “For the foodstuffs you gave me before some of my travels. It turns out I didn’t need them, but a man and his woman were in dire need. Roof or Riff or Ralf was his name. Since they can’t repay you, I will.”

  Without another word he hurried back to Chism and led deeper into the camp. They walked through scores of small camps where men from villages across the kingdom milled in supportive clusters, interspersed with bands of career soldiers. One of the groups was comprised of men from Frenala, and Hatta had a similar reunion with them while Chism looked on. As they talked about the travesty of the situation, a single horn sounded from the center of the front ranks, and spread like a wave to trumpeters along the outlying parts of the camp. It was a single blast, not signaling battle or attack, merely calling for readiness. But it was enough to get men armed and moving forward.

  Hatta took the opportunity to separate nonchalantly from the Frenala men, and the pair allowed themselves to be caught in the flow moving northward toward the eventual battlefield. The press grew thick as Chism followed his brother through the throng of conscripts and soldiers, and Chism was jostled repeatedly by the larger men.

  Though he twisted and turned to fit through gaps without making contact, the soldiers closed in on him. In a battle he could cut himself free, use Thirsty to create some room to breathe. But these men weren’t intent on hurting him. He was caught in a mass migration and couldn’t take it much longer.

  Hatta always chanted nonsense words when he couldn’t deal with a situation, but that never worked for Chism. Every brush against a shoulder, each jostle from behind, every touch whether purposeful or accidental fueled his anxiety, causing his hand to reach involuntarily for Thirsty’s hilt. He focused on staying close behind Hatta.

  Just as he was about to scream and start punching, a dull-looking fellow with a pair of cudgels gave him a shove from the side, saying something about ‘boy soldiers’ and sending him reeling to the ground. Incensed, he rose to his feet to teach the man about boy soldiers when he was distracted by a strange shape dodging in and out of the feet of the swarming men. It had the appearance of a large cat, but appeared camouflaged somehow.

  Bracing against the shoving crowd, Chism observed the nimble creature for a moment. With implausible agility it avoided every footfall by a hair’s width, and did so with an enormous grin. Somehow, the soldiers flowed past without even noticing it.

  Why can’t they see it? A few of them should at least glance down at it.

  The contrast of cat against the background reminded him of camouflage training as an Elite. Even the most skilled recruits had been unable to construct concealment to fool Chism. He felt the same twinge of pride the Elite training had elicited. It was the one benefit of color blindness that Chism knew of, and when needed, it was significant. Everyone else put too much stock in color, relied on it to distinguish everything in life. But Chism grew up noticing shapes and contrast, even among items of the same shade.

  Is this what Hatta goes through when he sees things other people don’t? The mixture of pride and confusion made it hard to focus on the events that surrounded him. For a moment Chism felt a pang of sympathy for his brother. With a shock, he realized he’d lost Hatta in the crowd when he fell.

  “Hatta!” he called, but the din of the throng covered his voice. He tried jumping up, scanning for the turtle shell hat, but he only caught small glimpses over the nearby men with each leap and was knocked to the ground twice more.

  There was no sense in walking in the direction Hatta was headed; he never traveled a straight line.

  Cursed color blindness! Again there was a chance Hatta’s garish clothes would stick out, if only he could see them.

  Through the clamor of the army, Chism heard a calm tenor voice. “It appears you’ve misplaced your brother.” The noise came from the direction of the camouflaged cat.

  “What?” demanded Chism, watching more closely.

  Dancing between legs and under feet, the cheerful cat said, “I can help you find him.” Chism was in a mood to strangle the obnoxious cat, for the grin if nothing else, when he remembered something his brother said about a magical cat.

  “Do you know my brother?” he asked, standing in front of the cat. Men poured around him like a stream around a lone upright branch, giving the cat enough of a respite to stop dodging.

  “That would depend on who your brother is.”

  “Hatta. You just mentioned him.” He continued to scan the camp, but without success.

  “You could have other brothers.” Somehow in the chaos the cat was calm.

>   “I don’t have time for this,” said Chism. “Do you know Hatta or not?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” said the cat. His face was flat and round, with cat features such as whiskers and pointed ears. His smile was endearing and unsettling at the same time. “Cheshire’s my name. Shall we go then?”

  Chism peered around one more time for his brother, but saw no sign of the turtle shell hat. It was probably best to ignore the cat. Cavorting with fantastic creatures was Hatta’s style.

  But what chance did he have of finding Hatta among thousands of men? And what chance does Hatta have if I don’t find him? Madness or no, his brother needed him.

  “It appears I have no choice, Cheshire,” said Chism grudgingly.

  “There's always a choice.” When Chism didn’t answer, the cat said, “Right this way, then.” With a nod of his head he began picking his way at a slight angle to the flow of the men of Maravilla.

  The cat dodged effortlessly around ankles and feet, but Chism had to work to excuse himself through. The crowd slowed but thickened, Cheshire always keeping just within Chism’s view. The route they traveled was different than the one Hatta had been on, but that was to be expected if they actually were headed toward him. As they approached the front lines, the pace of the soldiers slowed then stopped, and with eyes fixed on the cat, Chism continued pushing in pursuit. Touching so many strangers revolted him, but if he lost the cat he’d lose his only hope of finding Hatta.

  Of a sudden, after squeezing through two uniformed soldiers, Chism found himself in the open meadow. On his side of the valley, a hundred paces to the west, a delegation was forming. On the opposite lip of the bowl, some Whites gathered in a similar group. Though Chism lacked the skills for it, negotiating was a good step. At the very least it might delay fighting until he and Hatta could escape this madness, figuratively speaking. Chism had little hope that his brother could ever escape the madness inside his head.

  Like a lone bannerman assaulting an enemy force, the cat’s drab tail protruded from the meadow grass, leading a straight line toward the Provinces’ army. Chism’s faith in the unusual cat was fading, but what option did he have? If nothing else, Hatta could work his kindness on this side of the battlefield, while Chism worked Thirsty on the other. The thought of wielding his friend after such a long respite thrilled him, and he plunged forward with renewed resolve.

  ***

  The sea of men grew thicker by the step, forcing Hatta to hunker beneath his hat and weave between them, changing direction frequently. The camp had no end. Of course, it was possible that he was going around in circles. Without paying attention to people or landmarks there was no way of knowing.

  Soldiers jostled him increasingly and his attempts to dodge between them became more difficult as he penetrated deeper into the camp. With each bump, brush, and nudge their terrible violence rubbed off on him, dirtying his coat and sinking into his person. He wanted to brush himself off after each contact, but in such a crowd it was pointless. If he continued to think about it, he’d be frozen.

  “Methinks we may never get there,” he told Chism.

  Chism didn’t answer.

  Still upset that I won’t give up yet, he thought. But whatever Chism’s reason for staying, Hatta was glad to have his company and his support.

  After another minute through the maze of bodies, he said, “I thank you for staying, Chism.”

  Still no answer. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Peering over his shoulder, Hatta realized with horror that he was alone. Had Chism abandoned him again? They were doing that to each other much too often. In desperation, he scanned the crowd, paying particular attention to the direction from which he had come. But even rising on tiptoes, Hatta was unable to see over the heads of the soldiers. Between Chism’s short stature and bland clothes that matched most of the conscripts, it was pointless. Another reason people should dress as individuals.

  Struggling to slow his breathing, he muttered a nonsense poem. Deep down he knew it was only a distraction, that whatever he was trying to hide from was still every bit as present, but the verse soothed him nonetheless.

  The tension faded somewhat, but he had to repeat the rhyme and recite another one before he felt strong enough to go on by himself. The red-clad soldiers continued their congregating, moving toward the edge of camp facing the White Army.

  With head lowered, Hatta wedged through a wall of soldiers, and found himself facing a new color of uniforms—a circle of dark blue, surrounded a pace or two away by the grays and browns of townsmen. It was like a close up view of a single royal wildflower against a drab background of dead leaves and dirt, and he paused to take it in.

  “Hatta?” One of the blue petals detached from the circle and approached him. “Hatta, how did you end up here?”

  It was the Jabberslayer’s Fellow, about a hand shorter than Hatta. Small. Small, smallie, “Ollie!” His Elite, Tjaden, followed and Hatta greeted him as well. That name was easy since it started like Jabberwocky.

  “So they drafted you, huh?” asked Ollie.

  “Yes, but it was the White Army, and I was only a soldier for two hours which was more than plenty. Now I’m messenger to the White Queen. The White Messenger, that is.”

  At mention of the Whites, Ollie and Tjaden glanced toward the other army. As they turned back, Ollie’s focus snapped back toward the meadow and the Whites. “Jay,” said Ollie, pointing to the dead man’s land between the armies, “doesn’t that look like Chism?”

  The black-haired young man walking toward the White front lines was indubitably Chism, and Hatta breathed a sigh in relief. Until he realized they were hundreds of paces apart.

  Why would Chism wander off to the Provincial Army?

  “Of course it looks like Chism; who else would Chism look like?” said Hatta. “I was wondering where he runoffed to.”

  With a quizzical look, Ollie asked, “You know Chism?”

  “Yes, since I was five years or six years old.”

  “I thought you were from Frenala,” said Ollie.

  “When I was in Shey’s Orchard I was from Frenala, but when I was in Frenala I was from T’lai. Just like my brother,” he added with a smile.

  “Brothers?” exclaimed Tjaden. “I don’t know if I’ve met two people more different than the pair of you.”

  “Bizarre brothers both, but brothers besides,” added Ollie with a grin.

  “And not only brothers, but friends,” said Hatta. “It would be fair to say that we care for nothing in the world more than we care for each other.”

  “I know you’re peace-loving, Hatta,” said Tjaden, “but Chism was the instigator of the avalanche that led to this disaster.”

  Hatta refused to acknowledge that. True or not, no good could come from believing critical remarks about a friend or brother. Forcing a smile, he said, “Speaking of Frenala, did you find Fletcher the fletcher?”

  “Yes!” said Ollie, reaching over his shoulder to withdraw an arrow. “I was skeptical, but you were right. He makes the truest arrows I’ve ever shot.” He thrust the thick-shafted weapon at Hatta, who accepted it as he would a hissing adder.

  It was Hatta’s first time holding an arrow, and it was much sturdier than he expected, as thick around as his pinky. For a weapon of war it had a bit of beauty, if he ignored the gleaming metal point. Two of the feathers were dusty red, like a sunset on a hazy day, and the other was the same dark blue as the Elite uniforms. The shaft was polished and smooth, a dark, grainy wood.

  “What a difference good arrows make,” said Ollie, and Hatta willingly handed the arrow back. “I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Tjaden said, “You wouldn’t know it to hear him talk, but Ollie is quite possibly the best archer in Maravilla now. I never thought I’d see it, but he actually reached a point where his skill surpassed his mouth. After that he had no choice but to be humble.”

  Ollie shot him a look that made Tjaden smile even wider.

  “For soldiers such as yourselve
s this is probably great fun,” said Hatta.

  Their smiles faded quickly and Tjaden said, “This is the worst possible scenario. If the nobles can’t work something out we’ll end up fighting against other Elites.”

  Ollie added, “I don’t relish the idea of killing men who are like brothers to me.”

  And Hatta understood; yet at the same time he was more confused than ever. Everyone he talked to opposed this war. Nobody wanted to kill and surely no one wanted to die. Did they? So why were thousands gathered to kill and be killed? Everyone blamed the selfish nobles and he thought of Cuora. But even her, with two stark personalities, couldn’t desire something like this.

  “Isn’t there something you might be able to do, Tjaden?” Hatta pleaded. “It was you who killed the Jabberwocky, when other soldiers couldn’t do it for decades.” Someone had to do something, and Tjaden was as likely a hero as anyone he knew.

  The Elite grunted. “I wish I could, but I’m just a soldier.”

  The royal blue that Tjaden and Ollie wore started to fade, and looking around Hatta saw the reds on uniforms and green of the grass dampen as well. He was sinking again. It was time to move on. “Well, I’ll look into it, then. Luck to both of you.”

  They bid him farewell as Hatta walked on, unsure of his options.

  ***

  After Chism broke through the mass of goggling soldiers, he heard one ask another if they should stop him. “Nah,” said the second voice. “The boy’s anxious for battle. Let him find out how much fun it is.”

  He mentally dared them to try to stop him. It had been so long since he’d resorted to violence and the thought was tempting.

  The Provinces’ forces were gathered a half mile north of Queen Cuora’s army. Chism knew he was infamous in the Provinces and most likely hated by thousands. So what purpose would the cat have in leading him to his death? Other than abject madness. Yet Chism had no other hope of finding Hatta before he did anything extreme. Only a fraction of the meadow lay behind him. The walk would take a while, so Chism began counting to stop the tension from escalating inside his head. Before long the numbers were high enough to demand his attention, and he declined any shorthand method of tracking his march. Hundreds and hundreds of steps ate the meadow, and when he reached nine hundred he could make out the faces of individuals.