Furthermore

by Tahereh Mafi

  Alice and Oliver looked up to discover a man scowling at them. He looked human enough, but the distance between his world and theirs seemed infinite. She realized then that a man in black and white seems impossibly gray, and even more impossible to reach; it was almost as though he existed in a different dimension.

  Something was nagging at the back of Alice’s mind.

  A bit of conversation.

  Something Tim had told her.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you,” the man shouted again, and Alice sprang to attention. The man was brandishing a cane at the two of them. Alice noticed that he had a scruffy black beard and wore a wool cap that pushed down over his eyes, and between his lips was an unlit pipe, and as he talked, it bobbed around in his mouth.

  “Sitting in the snow in a silk gown,” he grumbled. “Up, the lot of you,” he said, poking Oliver with his cane. “Get inside.”

  She and Oliver stumbled to their feet and stared at the man.

  “Are you—?” she started to say.

  “Of course I am,” he said. “Do you see anyone else here? Now hurry up,” he said. “I’ve put the kettle on, and it’ll be whistling by now.”

  They did as they were told and followed the old man toward the half-globe home. The man stopped short a few feet and then began to disappear from his ankles up; it was only as she got closer that Alice realized he was walking down a set of stairs.

  They quickly followed his lead.

  It was him, then her, then Oliver, disappearing into the ground only to then climb their way back up; except when they finally faced a door, it opened from overhead.

  Alice stomped the snow off her feet as they climbed and, as they crossed the threshold up and into the glass home, she did her best not to trail any dirt or wet onto the old man’s floor.

  Suddenly, she and Oliver were standing in the middle of a clear dome, and looking out at the snowy world from the comfort of a toasty, cozy sanctuary.

  As promised, the kettle had already begun to whistle. The old man moved quickly and easily for someone who carried a cane, and she wondered for a moment why he carried it. She noticed then that there was no real kitchen, no living room or bedroom, but one big space where everything sat out in the open; there were no secrets here, no closed doors, no walls or windows.

  All the furniture was minimal and spare: clean lines and simple frames, black seat cushions, gray pillows and a threadbare blanket that was neatly folded and placed atop a bed. Solid shades of gray dotted her vision; this home was a place where colors did not exist and patterns were not made. It was steady, sturdy, and extremely tidy. The rug underfoot was soft and gray and fluffy, and not bothered by a single spot.

  Alice and Oliver weren’t sure what to do with themselves.

  It was a strange home for a painter, stranger still that there was no sign of his paintings anywhere. Alice cleared her throat, rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, and waited for the old man to return.

  He came forward with fast, heavy footfalls—now moving without the assistance of his cane—holding two cups of hot tea that spilled into their saucers with his every step, and set them down on a small table around which a large couch and a few chairs had gathered. No cream, no sugar, no please or thank you.

  “Well, sit down, then,” said the man, looking from her to Oliver, obviously irritated. He pulled the wool cap off his head to reveal a rather large tuft of dark hair that stuck straight up before falling into his face, and as she and Oliver tentatively took their seats, so did he.

  He seemed much younger than Alice had originally thought he was. In fact, she was fairly certain he wasn’t old at all. He was just crabby. She tried to get a better look at his face, but he’d ducked his chin into his chest, and his eyes were now partially obscured by his hair. Alice sat back, confused.

  It was coming back to her now—her conversations with Tim—and she looked around, carefully cataloguing all the gray. There was not a spot of bright color anywhere, and Alice was growing more convinced by the moment:

  This must be a prison village.

  But how could it be? Could the painter also be an inmate? Alice wasn’t sure. She didn’t know Furthermore well enough to know whether this was possible.

  Alice looked to Oliver and nearly told him what she was thinking (she was thinking that if this was a prison village, that perhaps this man might be able to tell her how to find Father), but fear had made her too afraid to hope, so she kept her theories to herself.

  Oliver cleared his throat.

  The painter crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair (she noticed then that he wore thick wool socks), and leveled them with a stare she couldn’t quite match. Alice felt too open, too vulnerable and bright-eyed, so she looked away.

  “So you’ve come about your arm, then?” he said to her.

  Alice nodded.

  “And how did you manage to lose it?” he said.

  She blinked up at him, then looked down again, frowning. “I—well, I made a mistake,” she said, digging the toe of her shoe into the carpet.

  “What kind of mistake?” he said.

  “I followed a paper fox,” Alice said quietly. “My right arm turned to paper.” She hesitated. “And then the fox ripped my arm off.” Alice didn’t know why she was speaking so stiltedly or, more importantly, she didn’t know why the painter made her so nervous, but her hand was sweating and her heart was pounding and her emotions were trying to tell her something she couldn’t yet hear.

  The painter laughed a loud, humorless laugh. “You followed a paper fox and got your arm ripped off.” He sighed. “Yep. Sounds about right.”

  His voice was rough from lack of use, but there was something about it that made Alice feel like she was overheating. Something in it—somewhere in the rustiness—that reminded her of something, of someone she could not place—

  “What’s your name?” he said, tilting his head, and for just a moment, his hair shifted out of his eyes.

  Alice thought she might collapse.

  “Oliver,” she cried. “Oliver—”

  “Your name is Oliver? That’s a strange name for a girl.”

  “My name is Oliver,” said Oliver, who’d jumped up and was now looking anxiously at Alice. “What’s wrong?” he said to her. “What’s the matter?”

  But Alice couldn’t get the words out. She was seeing spots; she thought her throat might close up.

  “Alice?” said Oliver, panicking. “Alice, what are you—”

  “Her name is Alice?” said the painter, who was now on his feet.

  “Father,” she gasped. “Father.”

  And then she fainted.

  !!!!!!!!

  I don’t know how much time elapsed between when she fell and when she woke—Oliver says it was at least several minutes—but when Alice finally blinked open her eyes, they’d already filled to the brim with tears.

  Alice Alexis Queensmeadow had finally found Father.

  Accidentally, unintentionally (serendipitously), Alice had found Father and she was unsinkably happy.

  Their reunion was long and joyous; tears were shed, laughter was shared, stories were recounted from all. Alice’s and Oliver’s stories are already familiar to you, so I won’t bother relating them again, but Father’s story was new, and certainly new to you, too, so I’ll do my best to remember exactly what was said. However, before I do, I’d like to address one detail that must be bothering you:

  Strange, you must think, that Father hadn’t recognized Alice himself.

  You are wise to wonder so. And when Alice first told me how it all happened, I thought it strange, too. But we must remember that Father had been locked away for three Ferenwood years in the heart of an impossible land. Father had never dreamed—never dared to think it possible—that his young daughter would, firstly, know a single thing about Furthermore and, secondl
y, have survived long enough to find him, when he, a grown man, had barely survived himself. He had never dreamed Alice might show up. In fact, when Father saw Alice and Oliver requesting permission to enter his village, he accepted their request solely because the young girl he saw—her white hair, her white skin—reminded him a great deal of his own daughter.

  Alice, too, had no idea how much she’d changed since the last time she’d seen him. The girl who sat in front of Father now was a girl greatly changed from the nine-year-old Father remembered. This new Alice was confident and bold; she was articulate and passionate; she had become the kind of person who’d lived through hardship and survived with grace. Father hardly recognized her. Though it took very little encouragement for him to be reminded.

  Now, let us return to their reunion.

  As you might imagine, Alice and Oliver had thousands of questions for Father. What happened after he arrived in Furthermore? Why had he come? Why hadn’t he told anyone? What happened to get him stuck? Was he really a spy? And so forth. But as their conversations were exhaustive, rerouted by endless tangents, and punctuated by waves of tears and silent embraces, I will, in the interest of expediency, make an effort to summarize all that was said in a short set of paragraphs.

  Father had indeed been arrested for wasting time, and Enslaved Imprisonment was indeed his punishment. He was sentenced to the prison village of Ink, which was where he’d been isolated ever since. It was a comfortable setup—he had his own home and he wasn’t wearing shackles—but what was life without color? No friends, no family (not even a cellmate!), not a single thing to read. Father had been desperately depressed and lonely. He’d grown gruff and angry, and his bitterness made him reject nearly every job request he’d received. Being a painter, you see, was his enslavement. He was forced to do labor for Furthermore as a means of penance, and in this case, it was painting new limbs for those who’d lost them. Occasionally Father would paint someone a leg instead of an arm, or a finger instead of a toe, just to keep things interesting, but mostly it was a tedium of the same, boring work. “You’d be surprised,” he said, “how many people lose limbs in Furthermore.”

  But Father’s greater story began many moons back, beginning with his own Surrender and with the task he’d been tasked by the Ferenwood Elders. Father, as you know, had been sent to map the many magical lands and, after having lived and survived in Furthermore so long, he thought he’d have no trouble surviving again. “What I didn’t realize,” he said, “was that my brain was different when I was younger. I was successful because my mind was nimble and my ideas about the world were flexible. The tricks and twists of Furthermore were easier to navigate.” He sighed. “But as I got older, I became more set in my ways. It was harder to think differently and it took me longer to figure everything out. I had so much more to lose this time around, and the fear crippled me. I was too nervous, too careful. I made too many mistakes.” He shook his head. “I never should’ve come back. I wouldn’t have dared if I didn’t think it would be worth it.”

  Oliver, you see, had been right about why Father returned to Furthermore. He was no spy for Ferenwood.

  His effort was entirely for Alice. Always for Alice.

  This, dear reader, was the most difficult conversation for the group of them to get through, because there was so much emotion to contend with. Alice was devastated to have been the reason Father had put himself in danger. After all, Father had never wanted Alice to change—he’d only wanted her to be happy—and it broke her heart to think of all he’d risked for her. Thankfully, her hurts were healing quickly.

  And Alice was learning to be happy.

  Alice knew that being different would always be difficult; she knew that there was no magic that would erase narrow-mindedness or iron out the inequities in life. But Alice was also beginning to learn that life was never lived in absolutes. People would both love her and rebuff her; they would show both kindness and prejudice. The simple truth was that Alice would always be different—but to be different was to be extraordinary, and to be extraordinary was an adventure. It no longer mattered how the world saw her; what mattered was how Alice saw herself.

  Alice would choose to love herself, different and extraordinary, every day of the week.

  Dear reader: I do hope you enjoy a happy ending.

  We are coming upon the last bit of our story now—the bit where Father and Alice and Oliver finally return home—and I’m feeling bittersweet about it.

  Father, as you might imagine, fixed Alice’s arm in a pinch, and she was a fully limbed young lady once more. Alice, for her part, very deftly magicked the village of Ink into a land absolutely drenched in color, and Father was reimagined into an even more stunning iteration of his former self. Oliver, good sport that he was, tapped open his magical box with its little door, and they three clambered in, one after the other, and soon, very soon, they were right back where they started, back home in Ferenwood.

  A great deal of time had passed while they journeyed through Furthermore, though Alice didn’t know how much. All she knew was that it was winter in Ferenwood, which meant they’d been gone not quite a full year. Snow had descended upon the land in their absence, icing the many hills and valleys in a neat layer of white. Thousands of trees had attempted to shiver their branches free of frost, and when she squinted, Alice could see their green skeletons peeking through. Chimneys chugged atop warmly lit homes, and the town was still, and they three were silent, and Alice exhaled as she closed her eyes. She had never been more grateful for this town or for this life, and she never again wanted to take it for granted. She was happy to be home and happy to have a home. And she couldn’t wait to see Mother’s reaction, Mother who didn’t know Father was here.

  Alice and Oliver hugged each other tightly as they said their good-byes, and Oliver promised to come over the very next day to help her build an igloo and make plans for the spring. Oliver would be moving on to upper-level schooling now that he’d completed his Surrender, but Alice had no idea what she’d do next. Father was surprised to hear her say so.

  “But, Alice,” he said. “Didn’t you say you received a black card? For failing your Surrender?”

  “Yes,” said Alice quietly. She ducked her head. “I did.”

  Father lifted Alice’s chin and looked her in the eye. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. A black card just means you get another try the following year. Did you never unlock it?”

  “What?” she said, hardly daring to breathe. “I get to try again? I get to do my Surrender over?”

  “Of course you do,” said Father, smiling. “What did you think would happen? Did you think the Elders would toss you out of Ferenwood?”

  “Well, yes,” said Alice. “I thought they might.”

  “I told you,” Oliver said, beaming. “Didn’t I? I told you to unlock it earlier—I told you you were supposed to unlock it but you didn’t listen to me.”

  Alice went pink. “Alright,” she said. “You were right.”

  “I’m glad I was right,” said Oliver, who was grinning from ear to ear.

  And then, finally, it was time for Oliver to go home. He hugged Alice once more, then hugged Father, too, and then he ran as best he could through the snow. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” he called over his shoulder.

  “I can’t wait!” Alice called back.

  And then she took Father’s hand in hers, and Alice decided she would never, ever lose him again.

  Alice and Father stood together quietly just outside their little home, each lost in their own thoughts. The house was just as Alice had left it (save the snow that iced the roof and blanketed the ground); and the chimney puffed gently in the soft evening light, and the windows were lit from the life within. It was a warm, welcoming sight.

  But suddenly Alice was nervous.

  Alice knew how Mother would react to seeing Father again, but she didn’t know how Mother would react to
seeing her again—and this new unknown frightened her. After all, Alice had run off without saying a single good-bye; she couldn’t expect Mother to be forgiving. What about the ferenberries? What about the washing and the mending? What about the shame she’d brought upon her family by failing the Surrender? Mother was sure to be livid. Alice was certain that when the front door opened, she would be met with anger and punishment and crushing disappointment, and it almost made her wish she hadn’t come.

  For a moment Alice wondered whether she shouldn’t run straight to Oliver’s house and hide until Father could smooth things over—but she didn’t think Father would allow it. In any case, Alice could no longer dawdle. Father was eager to go inside, and Alice couldn’t deny him such a simple request. Not after everything he’d been through.

  Father squeezed her hand and gave her an encouraging look and said, “Are you ready, darling? Shall we go in together?”

  But Alice shook her head—she knew she should face Mother alone. (Though perhaps after Mother had her fill of yelling and screaming, Alice would call Father inside to save her.)

  So Alice told Father her plan. Well, part of it.

  “This way, it’ll be a surprise,” she said. “How Mother will cry when she sees you!”

  Father laughed. “Very well,” he said. “If that’s what you prefer.”

  Alice nodded, Father hid, and the two of them shared a wink before Alice walked up to the front door. Then, after only a moment’s hesitation, Alice knocked twice. Once for her and once for Father. (It was Furthermore tradition, after all.)

  A moment later, the front door swung open.

  Mother was exactly as Alice remembered her—beautiful and elegant and desperately sad. Her green corkscrew curls had sprung free of their ponytail, making her golden eyes seem somehow bigger and lonelier. Alice felt a sharp tug at her heart as she locked eyes with Mother, and both of them were suddenly still. Well, Alice was still. Mother appeared to be frozen.