Furthermore

by Tahereh Mafi

  “—time,” she finished for him.

  Oliver stopped walking and looked at her. He nodded slowly. “Yes.” He smiled, just a little. “You seem to be catching on.”

  “You think so?” she said. “I don’t think so.”

  “No?”

  “No,” Alice said. “I don’t think I’m catching on at all. I haven’t the faintest idea why we need to meet Time, not a clue what it has to do with the pocketbook, and not the tiniest inkling what any of this has to do with finding Father.” She sighed. “Oliver,” she said, “I have never been more confused in all my life.”

  Oliver looked worried for only a moment before his worries danced away. He laughed, which made him look lovely; and then he charged ahead, whistling a tune she could not place.

  Finally.

  They stood in front of a door attached to no house (this seemed to be commonplace in Furthermore), and Oliver was looking nervous. Alice couldn’t understand why—it was just a door, after all, and very similar to the one they had encountered at Border Control—though this one was even bigger, and much taller, and bright red and shiny as an apple, with a fancy handle made of gold. It was a beautiful door, but its secrets must’ve been contained somewhere she could not see, because on the other side of the door was nothing but trees.

  She took a moment to inspect it.

  “Where—Alice, where are on earth are you going?” Oliver said.

  “I just want to look around,” she said. “It’s only right that I have a chance to see what we’re getting ourselves into, isn’t it?”

  Oliver threw his hands up in defeat. And then he leaned against the door frame, crossed his arms, and nodded, as if to say, Please, by all means, take a good look.

  So she did.

  They were right at the edge of the woods now and surrounded on every side by very, very tall trees whose densely packed, triangle-shaped leaves were a shade of green so dark she had to squint to see their silhouettes. But when she tiptoed farther into the forest, Oliver panicked.

  “Not in there,” he said, pleading. “Not—Alice—”

  “Why?” She glanced back. The look on his face, really. “What’s the matter?”

  “Not in the forest,” he said quietly. “Please, Alice.”

  “Oh very well.” Alice relented and tried not to roll her eyes, thinking of how gracious, how patient and tolerant she was of Oliver’s whining, and turned to leave. But then—

  Well, it was strange.

  She couldn’t move.

  She didn’t want to alarm Oliver, so she didn’t say a word, and anyway she was sure she’d just gotten her skirts caught on a branch or some such. It certainly felt that way.

  Maybe if she tugged a little harder?

  Hm.

  No, that wasn’t working either.

  She tried again.

  Finally, she cleared her throat. “Oliver?” she said loudly. “I appear to be stuck.”

  “What do you mean?” Oliver was in front of her in an instant, paler than a wax moon, but careful to maintain his distance.

  “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,” she assured him. “Really.” She tried to smile. “It’s just that”—she tried tugging—“I can’t seem to”—she tugged again—“get free.” She sighed. “Will you see if my skirts are caught on something?”

  Oliver went even paler. He was such a little turtle sometimes, his neck disappearing into his chest. “I told you not to go in the forest,” was all he managed to whisper.

  “Oliver, please,” Alice said, irritated now. “Don’t be such a—”

  There was no time to finish that sentence, I’m afraid. No time at all, no, because Alice was suddenly screaming. It was all fairly embarrassing, actually, because the ordeal was over and done with in only a moment.

  Alice fell to the ground at Oliver’s feet and righted herself in a hurry, dusting off her skirts and whipping around too quickly, trying to get a look at her assailant.

  But Oliver’s face froze her still.

  He was staring at something with a look of shock she could not have anticipated. She thought nothing in Furthermore could surprise him. She thought he’d seen it all. Apparently not.

  This was a fox.

  An origami fox. A sheet of rust-and-white paper folded expertly into a real, live, deceptively lovely animal.

  It scampered about and made little fox noises and yipped and jumped and chased itself; and when it trotted along toward Alice, she wasn’t afraid at all.

  Oliver had nearly climbed a tree in fright, but Alice stepped forward, hand outstretched, ready to pet the paper fox. It bounded forward and nuzzled her hand before plowing into her legs, and she laughed and laughed and touched the top of its head, awed by the coarse paper of its fur.

  “What’s your name?” she whispered, crouching down to greet him. Or her. She didn’t know. “Are you a boy or a girl?”

  The fox jumped around her and bit her skirts, tugging on her clothes. For a fox with no teeth, it had quite a bite. Still, she felt no danger. Her new fox friend held her in place until finally she pet its head again. “Will you let me go?” she asked.

  Slowly, it nodded, stepped back, and fell into a bow.

  “You understand me?” she asked, astounded.

  Again, the fox nodded.

  “Alice,” said Oliver, his voice high and shaky. He was rifling through his bag with great urgency. “Could we please get going?”

  “Do you know anything about paper foxes?” she asked him. “Have you ever seen one before?”

  Oliver looked up, startled, his maps clutched in one hand, his notebook in the other, and shook his head. “Furthermore is made up of hundreds of villages,” he explained, now flipping through the pages of his notebook, “and I’ve only been to sixty-eight of them.” He paused, scanned a few pages, gave a disappointed sigh, and stuffed the notebook back in his bag.

  Alice was surprised to see Oliver so anxious.

  “I haven’t any idea where this fox came from,” Oliver continued, “but he’s not from here, and your father—well, your father never mentioned a paper fox in his entries, so this can’t possibly be good. No, this can’t possibly . . .”

  “His entries?” Alice said, surprised. “You mean that notebook belonged to Father?”

  But Oliver wasn’t listening. He’d unrolled a few map scrolls and was reading them upside down and then right side up, collapsing paper staircases and poking open miniature doors and unlocking tiny windows and finding nothing behind them. He even gave the maps a good shake to see if anything new would fall out, all to no avail. He was looking increasingly worried, which Alice, bless her heart, found highly entertaining.

  “It’s not right,” Oliver was saying, jabbing at different parts of the map with one finger. “It’s not as it should be. There’s nothing here about a fox.” He shook his head, hard, and rolled up the scrolls he’d so hastily unfurled.

  “Oliver,” Alice tried again. “Is that Father’s journal you’ve got there?”

  Oliver’s jaw twitched. “What? This? Oh,” he said. “Yes, well, it was all part of my task, you know, to help m—”

  “May I see it?” Alice asked, stepping forward. “Please? I’d dearly love to see what Father wrote down.”

  Oliver was clinging to his messenger bag so tightly he was nearly vibrating in place. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said. “The Elders put very firm magical restrictions on the items I’ve been loaned for my journey, and if they’re handled by anyone but me, they’ll know.”

  “Oh,” said Alice, crestfallen. She knew how tasks worked and she could imagine the Elders having done such a thing. But more importantly, Alice was still operating under the assumption that she could trust Oliver; she thought she’d be able to tell when he was spinning a lie.

  So she believed him.

  Oliv
er was visibly relieved, but Alice, who was once again distracted by the paper fox, didn’t seem to notice.

  Oliver cleared his throat. “We, um, we should really get going.”

  “But he looks so sweet,” she said. “Can’t we bring him along?” Alice had little to hold on to in this strange land and she was proud to have discovered something Oliver had not. She wanted to contribute something important to their journey and couldn’t bring herself to give up on the fox just yet.

  But Oliver was shaking his head. “Don’t be fooled by Furthermore,” he said as he shoved the maps back into his bag. “Please, Alice. Remember why we’re here. If we don’t stick to my original plan, we might never reach your father.”

  Any reminder of Father was enough to set Alice’s spine straight. “Of course I remember why we’re here,” she said quickly, cheeks aflame. “No need to remind me.”

  Oliver nodded and even looked a little sorry to have said anything.

  No distractions, Alice scolded herself. No distractions. Think of Father, she thought. Waiting for help. Hurting somewhere.

  That was all it took.

  She offered a small smile to the fox (who then scampered back into the forest) and joined Oliver at the red door. They were here to meet Time. They were here to save Father.

  She took a deep breath.

  “Are you ready?” Oliver asked her.

  “Always,” she said.

  And they knocked.

  The two of them together, her knuckles and his. Oliver said these were important manners in Furthermore. When two people came to visit, both people should knock.

  “Otherwise,” he said, “it would feel like a lie, wouldn’t it?” He smiled. “Thinking only one person was coming over for tea, when actually it was two!”

  Alice raised an eyebrow. She didn’t say it then, but she was thinking it: Oliver was growing odder by the moment.

  So they knocked on Time’s door until Oliver said they’d knocked enough, and then it was time to wait.

  “How long?” Alice asked. “How long do we wait?”

  “As long as it takes,” he said. “We wait until Time comes.”

  Ten minutes later, Alice was grumpy.

  She thought this was all a bit ridiculous. Waiting for Time. Oh, she was losing her mind, she was sure of it. She tried to remember the last time she’d slept, and couldn’t.

  What day was it? How long had they been gone? Had Mother and her brothers finally noticed she’d left?

  Alice was paid such unaffectionate attention at home that it was hard for her to believe Mother would miss her. But Alice underestimated the space she took up in the hearts and minds of those she met and she had no way of knowing how her absence would affect the ones she loved. Nor did she have time to dwell on it. Her days were dizzier than ever here in Furthermore, and though she missed her home, she didn’t miss the long, empty hours or the interminable stretches of loneliness. Here at least she had Oliver—a friend unlike any she’d ever had—and constant adventure to fill her mind.

  Speaking of which, the big red door had finally opened.

  Behind it was a little boy.

  He wore denim overalls over a bright red T-shirt and he peered up at them through a pair of spectacles far too large for his face, taking care to stare at Alice the longest.

  She and Oliver said nothing.

  “Good,” the boy finally said with a sigh. He sounded like he’d lived the life of an old man. “Very good that you’ve brought her.” And then he turned around and left, walking back through a door into a world she couldn’t see the end of.

  Oliver moved to follow him, and Alice shot him an anxious look. “Don’t worry,” Oliver said, reaching for her hand. “He’s my friend. And I’ve been here before.”

  They followed the boy through a house so dark Alice almost thought she’d gone blind. In fact, it was so impossible to see anything but the boy that the darkness actually seemed intentional.

  Time was private, apparently.

  They three tiptoed through hallways and up stairways and under doorways until finally they reached a room that was brightly lit. Inside was a very old desk and very old chairs (you’ll find that young people are very good at spotting old things), and every inch of the room was covered in numbers. Plastered to the walls and tables, framed and hung as photos, upholstered to the chairs; books and books of numbers were piled on floors and windowsills and coffee tables. It was bizarre.

  The little boy asked them to sit down, and then, to Alice’s surprise, took his seat behind the large desk, laced his fingers on the table, and said,

  “Alice, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “Oh,” she said, startled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr.—um, Mr. Time.”

  “No need to be so formal,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Call me Tim. And please”—he smiled and gestured to his appearance—“forgive my age,” he said. “It changes on the hour.”

  Alice tried to smile.

  “Thank you for meeting me here again,” he said to Oliver. “I know how much trouble it is to negotiate with my security team, but I can only ever be of use to you when I can stand to be still.” To Alice, he said, “I hope my friends didn’t frighten you too much. Some people find those pantsuits extremely intimidating.”

  “Not at all,” she said shakily. “I thought their pantsuits were lovely.”

  But Alice was distracted. Tim was dark-haired and olive-skinned in a way that reminded her of Father. Father’s skin was not such a lovely brown as Mother’s, but just a shade or two lighter, and Alice’s heart was hit with a sudden swell of emotion as she remembered her parents’ faces.

  “Now then,” Tim said as he turned to Oliver, all business. “You brought the book?”

  Oliver nodded and placed the pocketbook on the table.

  “Very well, very well,” said Tim, looking vaguely disappointed. “Thank you for returning it.”

  Alice glanced at Oliver, all question marks. He still hadn’t told her anything about what they were doing here, and she was beginning to realize he seldom did—not until it was too late.

  Tim seemed to understand.

  “Oliver paid me a visit,” he explained, “the last time he was in Furthermore. I’d respectfully requested that—in the very likely chance he should fail in his mission—he return the pocketbook to me. And now he’s here, true to his word.” Tim folded his hands on his desk and took a moment to smile at Oliver in a kind, fatherly fashion, which, truth be told, was uncomfortable to witness, as Tim had the face and build of a seven-year-old and appeared to be in no position to have fathered anyone.

  “But why was Oliver here before?” Alice asked. “What did he need the pocketbook for?”

  “Well,” Tim said, surprised. “To find your father’s pocket, of course.”

  “My father’s—I’m sorry,” she said, stunned, “my father’s pocket is in there?”

  “Yes,” Oliver said quickly. “The pocketbook brought me to Tim the last time I was here. I needed to hand over to him the contents of your father’s pocket.”

  “Oliver!” Alice gasped, horrified. “You just handed over Father’s things to someone else? How could you?”

  Oliver sat up in his seat. “No,” he said, “it wasn’t—I didn’t—”

  “Your father got himself into a bit of a bind,” Tim said gently. “Oliver was only trying to help mend the matter.”

  “What?” Alice looked at Oliver, panicked. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” she cried. “What did Father do? Was it awful? Did he . . . eat someone?”

  (Tim flinched at that last bit, but we won’t dwell on it.)

  “Of course not,” said Oliver. “But he took far too much time to make a decision. Remember, Alice—we talked about this—it’s a grave offense.”

  Alice was stunned. It
took her a full minute to find her voice, and when she did, she said, “That is one of the most ridiculous rules I’ve ever heard in all my life.”

  Tim cleared his throat, visibly offended, studied a chipped corner of his desk and pinched his bottom lip between two fingers. Finally he dropped his fingers and, affecting a tone of sympathy, said, “See, it’s quite simple, really. In Furthermore we do not waste time, share time, or spare time, and I’m afraid your father took more than his measure. Because what he took belonged to me, I was the only one with permission to search his pockets.” He paused. “Though I’m afraid there wasn’t much to reclaim. I had no choice but to repossess his ruler.”

  Alice’s hands fell into her lap as she sat straight up and stared, unblinking, at Tim’s round, ticking face. His mouth twitched; his hands twitched. He looked like an old clock.

  Suddenly, Alice understood.

  “Is that what Ted meant?” she said slowly. “About being arrested?” She looked from Tim to Oliver. “Was Father arrested for taking too much time?”

  Tim’s eyebrows hiked up an inch and his oversized glasses slipped down his nose. “Yes, I’d say so,” he said, pushing the glasses back into place. “I’d say so, yes.”

  “Oh my.” Alice had taken to flapping her hands around as the seriousness of it all finally set in. “Oh, oh, oh—”

  “I know this isn’t much in the way of comfort,” Oliver said gently, “but . . . would you like to see his pocket?”

  Alice dropped her flapping hands. And nodded.

  Oliver checked to make sure it was alright with Tim, and Tim tilted his head approvingly. Oliver gave Alice a warm smile, cracked open the pocketbook, and Alice was on her feet and looking over Oliver’s shoulder in the same second it took Tim to sneeze. The old, musty pages of the pocketbook had unleashed a foot of dust into the air, and while Tim used up the moment to blow his boyish nose, Oliver bent over the book with great care. The spine creaked and wheezed like an ancient staircase mounted by mighty beasts, and though Oliver did his best to be gentle, he couldn’t help but disturb the peace of the pocketbook.