’Twas Brillig: A Dark Faerie Tale for the Grown Ups

By Sher Dawn

Twas Brillig in an adult fantasy spin-off of Alices Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. After a knock on her head from a school fight, Ceila Bidle finds she can pull the original Alice Liddlefor whom the story was first written stories for herthrough her bedroom mirror. Neither girl is happy with her own period of time. Ceila becomes involved with a debate team meeting for the National Youth Challenge to revise the constitution of the United States. Also Ceila and Alice are tutors at the wild palace of a magical red witch named Emma. The girls decide to introduce democracy to Wonderland as they practice against both Victorian mores and class warfare in the United States. The heads are gonna roll.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524514266

Sher Dawn

Sher Dawn hails from the San Francisco Bay Area, where she has attended with relish such time travel festivals as the Renaissance Pleasure Faire and the Dickens’s Faire. She designs her own costumes and wardrobe. Her screen credits as an animator and as a storyboard and layout artist can be viewed at www.imdb.com/name/nm1980802/. Her career includes Masters of the Universe, She-Ra, and Bravestarr and such computer calendars and games as Johnny Castaway, Willy Beamish, and King’s Quest VII. She currently lives in Oregon, where she has done some carpentry, carving, and welding. As a child, she read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass with a root beer float in one hand and a homemade eggnog in the other as an after-school treat. And yes, poor Emma—the tutelary red (karmic) witch—got stuck with plenty of her later-life baggage. (It is comforting to see that a character who is stronger, smarter, and more powerful can’t handle the you-know-what in the fan any better than the rest of us! Misery wants company, and all that.) Alice has always seemed likely to grow into a girl who will not settle for merely questioning the social mores of a whacked-out society, and Ceila is an American girl amalgam for Alice. After a blow to the head from a school fight, Ceila discovers she has the power to pull the original Alice Liddell through her bedroom mirror! Neither girl is happy with her natural time zone; they decide to practice social reengineering on Wonderland before working their magic on Victorian England and the United States of America. So fasten your seatbelt. It’s going to be a bumpy ride—and heads will roll! (There is a poisoned apple for the royal ruling class headed Wonderland’s way. It’s called democracy—and we’re next!) Not to get too pushy with the commercials, but there are some really nice personal goodies in the artist’s store, if you’re curiouser and curiouser . . . Try this: www.cafepress.com/phantasmagloria. (Hey, it’s a work in progress. A book has been holding life up. You should see the house and the yard! Yowsa!)

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Sherry Wheeler.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2016910662

ISBN:               Hardcover                          978-1-5245-1424-2

                        Softcover                           978-1-5245-1425-9

                        eBook                                 978-1-5245-1426-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/04/2017

Xlibris

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Contents

Chapter 1 Bitch Fight

Chapter 2 Ceila Meets Alice Through the Looking Glass

Chapter 3 Illumination

Chapter 4 Ceila Sends in a Big Bill for the White Rabbit

Chapter 5 Pin Fittings, Geek Makeovers and Constitutional Amendments

Chapter 6 Mixed Advice from Conflicting Sources

Chapter 7 Grandma’s Disgruntled Face, Cassandra’s Curse

Chapter 8 Comparisons Between Situations…

Chapter 9 Heroines-in-Training

Chapter 10 What’s a Nice Kid Like You Doin’ in a Place Like This?

Chapter 11 Abandonment Issues

Chapter 12 Perspective on What Constitutes a Bad Guy

Chapter 13 Lightening Does the Work (—Magik and Science Meld…)

Chapter 14 A Jabberwocky Called Xenophobia

Chapter 15 A Walking Hex by Birth

Chapter 16 Prepping Retaliation: The Dove Helps the Owl Strike a Hawk

Chapter 17 Jonah Is Chosen—and Crowned

Chapter 18 Scents and Snake-Abilities

Chapter 19 The Universe Gives the Gift of Heebie Jeebies

Chapter 20 Darkness and Light Go Toe to Toe

Chapter 21 The Crack of Thunder

Chapter 22 Constitutional Non-Monarchies

Chapter 23 Pushing Timelines Towards the Light

Chapter 24 The Goddess Knows What Must Be

Chapter 25 ’Twas Brillig

Author’s Recommended Reading List

Chapter 1

Bitch Fight

(Following a Dark Alice Down a Sick Rabbit Hole)

Ceila was beginning to get very tired of crouching behind the home ec teacher’s fat keister; the growing strain made her back ache. (The instructor was rambling to another about never having enough salary to put in the bank: clearly, she ate it.)

It was a ridiculous situation—with no escape; Ceila was peeping through the tiny crook of that pudgy, diabetically bruised elbow (—which Mrs. Guerneau’s thick hand kept kneading), but it only framed the picture of those snooty-popular fashioneistas—giggling their insinuative conversation as they tossed their tresses.

And what is the use of sewing cool looks, thought poor Ceila, if you’re always being stuck with mean bitches for conversations?

Or so she was trying to consider: after trying—as well as she could—to make herself look really hot (—at least one day—) the creepy white-bread style of that malicious cool-girl clique had been snide, shallow and disappointingly stupid.

So… whether acceptance by such creatures could have given one any pleasure after all… or was worth the trouble of making the slim yellow dress (—with the daisy chain under her breastless bustline—) in light of the now more pressing desire to pick the nasty bitches off—fist first—seemed a moot point.

What to do about expulsion?

Nothing. Revenge was just not feasible for now. The most she could hope for was to stay hidden—or defend herself only with her mouth. (Theirs were crueler by far.)

Suddenly a bell rang, and like a frightened rabbit in a too-short skirt, the school slut scurried by (—showing a rump’s worth more than pink thighs); the girl called frantically after an indifferent punk who was strolling off outside for another smoke.

Oh, Claire, oh, Claire! worried Mrs. Guerneau, the Home Ec Cow (as her thick, fat, throat wattles banged her vocal cords). You’ll be too-oo late-uh!

Geez, Ceila thought. Ya think? OMIGAWD! Don’t go!

(Claire was her pet, though the feelings weren’t mutual; Claire knew when to suck up.)

(When Ceila thought it over afterward, it occurred to her that she ought not to have wondered at this; with her luck, it all seemed quite natural…)

Burning with vicarious curiosity, the instructor hurried after the venal pair headed for the hedge beyond the walkway. (Mrs. Guerneau never before had seen them do it, but she felt certain to make the most of it; it was time for brownie points in the academic field—convert it to cash… extra groceries… blow the whistle… HEY! Maybe even get a refresher course!) Pets come and go, after all.

There—exposed from the dearly departed behind—was poor Ceila, frozen in tableau: she was curled slavishly downward, as if tying Guerneau’s apron sash. Worse still… she unwittingly flashed a cheesy grin at the cool-girls. (The minute she realized the grin was frozen too, she despised herself… IDIOT!

The pretty girl with long, blonde hair (—who looked like Alice in Wonderland’s evil twin in modern, trendy attire—) smirked slightly; then she looked at her two similar friends on either side of her. They all checked their smart phones… yup. There was plenty of time… enough, anyway… Like sharks with the scent of blood, they slipped their phones away; Mira tossed her long pretty hair . . . they all stepped toward Ceila…

You can’t hit ’em, Ceila warned herself. Eat it, suck it up—or spit nasty shit back . . .

It was very good advice; her ability to follow it, not so good…

Nice. Mira snickered at the yellow dress. "Handmade?"

They all giggled. They were a year or two older and looked pointedly down their taller-set noses at the dusky, uppity shrimp.

Her mouth knew no fear when parrying with nasty truths. "At least my hands can ‘make’ something besides team jocks."

Bitch, breathed Kiera.

That’s not what you use, honey, quipped Jenna.

The other two laughed.

"At least I can make jocks if I want, Mira replied coolly. Course, I’m not so bowed over as you—from lugging so many books in a suitcase everywhere—that I don’t know the difference between those and a guy. Kiss your books at night? Have to, I guess."

Ooooh, giggled the other two—ten points for Mira!

Ceila just blinked; she couldn’t think of a comeback… Say something!

Ceila, you’re so pathetic, Mira sneered close to Ceila’s face… cocking her own from side to side. "I mean, like, don’t even think of trying, y’know? That dress is so lame—and you’ve got, like, nothing whatsofreakingever to put in it anyway! Look at you! Pitiful! Omigawd! Daisies! To underline what? Infected mosquito bites?"

The entourage burst out laughing.

Ceila’s lip quivered, but she controlled her breathing.

"You may think you know the answer to everything anyone asks, Mira continued, but you don’t even know how to like, groom yourself—that nappy, frizzy hair of yours—you must have lost the comb in it last week! You don’t even look like a girl. You look like—some little sixties Afro thang in a lame, homemade sack. Call that a dress? Puh-leeze!"

Ceila’s eyes burned with tears of pain and rage. But her mouth could parry not a swipe.

Seeing her thus wounded, they burst out laughing at this ethnic witticism and, satisfied, turned to go. Clearly, she was easily finished off.

Ceila lamely tried one last time to warn herself… Then instead—alas—she expressed herself—one hand snatched the pretty blonde hair, ripping some out, and the other became a fist that flew, landing between two startled robin-egg-blue eyes.

They became the equivalent of four cats on a hot tin roof, moving in a whirling ball that looked more like ten—never once considering how their status as enrolled students was likely to get out of this deep plummet. A crowd grew to cheer—and raise bets.

The yellow dress ripped, but despite her size and overwhelming odds, Ceila’s outrage so overwhelmed them that her eyes were the only ones to evade a good blackening; still, the teachers arrived, shocked, and were entertained—harshly—by their obligation to pull the slugging young ladies apart. (The fist shots flew wild—belting some instructors by mistake: this re-educated their previously amused views on feminine catfights.)

It was during such a desperate tug that centrifugal force slammed Ceila into a wall with a framed edge sticking out level with the back of her head…

She went down, with white-girl-fingers pointed at her as the source of it all… Speckles of light danced as the scenery darkened; she was falling down a very large rabbit hole.

Ceila’s eyes flickered open. It was blurry, at first. Then… something loomed over her face, she realized—another’s curious face! It was white, soft, and fluffy—with stiff whiskers, large ears that stood up straight. Its short, pink nose twitched, snuffling, over long, flat buckteeth. It had large luminous eyes, and they looked a bit anxious.

It cocked its head. Are you all right? it asked in a thick English drawl.

It was a rabbit!

Ceila tried to sit up but could only raise her neck. That hurt. I’m not sure.

Then you’d better just rest, it urged her. Don’t try to move around."

He was huge! At least nearly her own size.

Have I shrunk? she asked him.

Why do you say so? the rabbit asked, a bit surprised.

Rabbits aren’t as large as you where I come from. Is there something here that shrinks people? Or grows big rabbits?

He was a bit offended. Rabbits are people!

Sorry—she flustered—I mean: is there something here that can change humans, or rabbits, or whatever others there are? In size, I mean?

Quite a few serums I should think, he replied quite matter-of-factly. They can be administered any number of ways. Have you consumed anything?

I don’t remember eating or drinking anything like that, she remarked, thinking, Nothing that said eat me or drink me anyway…

You’ve had a nasty knock on the head, trying to run under that shelf just now. You’re too tall, don’t you know? Anyway, at first I thought you were Mary-Ann, but she’s cleaning upstairs. I spoke with her before she went up… Then I turned and saw you directly, dodging around the corner, suddenly there! How did you get here so quickly?

I-I don’t know. Ceila winced. I don’t even know where I am. I was dodging a fistfight at school. I think I fell and hit the corner of something. I’m not sure.

A fistfight? cried the rabbit in alarm. "Do girls do such things?"

"Not for sport, no," Ceila replied, confusedly…

Thank goodness! he sniffed. "I should hope not! I’m not certain where such a school as that may be, but you’re just out of my back entryway near the stairwell in my house." He added firmly, when not a bit of that made sense to her, "In Wonderland."

Ceila did try to raise her head then. Her brow knit in disbelief.

The house was a queer little hutch, charming, with a sort of rabbitty country estate style that seemed straight out of some amusement theme park.

No way! she cried.

I beg your pardon?

For what? Ceila asked, a bit confused.

"I mean I don’t understand you, he said. There are all sorts of ways hereabout. We’re near the crossroads, just out front. All ways belong to Her Majesty, of course…"

Ceila looked bug-eyed…

The queen, of course, he tried to clarify it, poor thing! (Must have been a hard clout.)

Ohhhhh, boy! Ceila let her head fall back, with a thud. It did not concern her, by now. Maybe if I hit it hard enough, I’ll wake up back in school, she thought, rather desperately. On the other hand, Hmmnnn. Maybe not . . .

Is Mary-Ann a maid or something? she asked rather hopefully.

Yes, a young girl like yourself, he replied, although I believe she’s got much redder hair, which I wonder… seems odd, you know. Humans sometimes do come hereabouts a size much too large to be of any real use, rather a nuisance at first, but size serums do help in such matters. Makes them more… manageable.

Do you hire a large staff? she enquired, unsure of the size of the house (and not choosing to hear that full statement). "Can this place support very many living wages?"

"Hire?" He looked bemused. "Why would one pay living wages for a maid? Or any caretaker? If you pay them fully for their time, why, they’d save their income in order to get away! How can an estate be managed by help that can board a train and leave?"

What? Ceila was startled. If there’s no pay, how can you keep them here?

Food and a place to sleep of course, he said a bit stuffily, "so they can survive, but you charge them, for ‘room and board’—discounted for working here, naturally, but enough to pretty much wipe out most of their earnings… Their pay being fairly nil, why, then, they think, you know, at least they’ve a place to stay." (His bucktoothed smirk looked a bit… upper-class savage. He clearly wasn’t considering her for bamboozling.)

"It’s called slavery!" cried Ceila, outraged at the concept.

"It’s not actually named that, and, well, it’s worked well for property owners—for centuries! Besides, he sniffed, what would you propose? Pay some mere slip of a girl a man’s wages for a day’s work? Especially after she’s been sufficiently shrunk? Why you’d never get any of them to marry, upon my word! And that’s their true, proper usage, after all." A girl that hadn’t heard reality by now… well!

She wanted to kick his hateful furry little butt, but first, she suspected, it might be more prudent to work out how to get the hell out of here… It all blurred again…

Vaguely, she heard a voice, angrily sneering, It’s just as well if she didn’t pull through—one less welfare mom—and all her puny, colored brats most likely…

As if! No guy will ever want the weird, geeky little loser!

It’s not like she’d ever know how, sneered the first bitch.

They all laughed loyally at her joke… and were promptly told off by outraged adults!

"Maybe some guys can get fed up enough with the stuffy little bookworm to gang-bang her, Mira added in a whisper… primly sneering, for ‘educational assistance.’"

They really did laugh then…

Ceila’s fist shot up straight like a rocket through the bleached blonde’s pug-nosed face, with the sound of a crunched OOUUNGHF! Suddenly, the pug-nose was even shorter—and vividly redder.

The other two girls squealed and flipped their wrists helplessly. Omigod! Omigod!

Even semiconscious, the puny little loser was fairly effective… Hopefully, one less vapid, bleached blonde soccer-cow-mom, she exulted—and blacked out again.

It seemed for a moment like the White Rabbit leaned forward to look at her anxiously, but just as other strange characters moved about her, she began to come to a little…

She was on the couch in the school nurse’s room. (She could have sworn it was walking around on its own legs but a minute ago.) Her head hurt, but no one was there. She tried to rise—and sneak out—but was waylaid by the English-lit instructor Ms. Sybil, who was also Ceila’s counselor.

Ceila? Unh-unh! Nice try. I was expecting a getaway. Come into my office for a moment, she urged. I want to talk with you—tell me what’s going on—so I can help.

Through her pooling tears, Ceila suddenly poured a tale of being taunted and bullied—for being smart, talented, and plain. Not cool, not cute, not… wanted. (Not even by her own father, who left her with a mixed ethnicity and then, simply, left.)

The lady seemed softened and sympathetic, seeing a similarity in her own teen years, but by now she herself was very chic and beautiful. She realized the girl would be unlikely to believe that they had ever had similar bad starts. It does get better, she promised in a gentler tone. The store shelves, by the way, are full of products for those unsettled by their genes… permanents for those with straight, limp hair, relaxers for unruly nappy hair… We simply adjust nature when it dissatisfies us, if we can, you see. A salon can help, or just something from a box you use at home. I have a friend who’s a beautician. I’ll talk to her; maybe we can work something out. She wants to expand her literary horizons—had a shortchanged education. Maybe you two can barter.

What about Mira?

"Mira, Kiera, and Jenn will be taking detention in extra diversity training—with sexual consciousness-raising for them—and you. If one’s gender track is too restricting, one soon tries to enforce the diminishment of others’ spirits as well."

Ceila got it: Misery wants company.

Sometimes, Ms. Sybil replied, "misery demands it shall have company. Those girls have heavy class pressure—and gender enforcement. Something hard for you to imagine, just as your problems are hard for them to process. But you must understand, Ceila…"

No more fighting? the girl presumed.

"You will join them in detention for fighting, that, I promise," Ms. Sybil informed her.

Ceila sighed. I don’t want to be with them. Anywhere. Ever again.

I’m sure you don’t, said the counselor. If only life were that simple. But it isn’t, darling. You are all going to be counseled together—along with your parents so everyone’s on the same page about assault and laws pertaining to that subject, my dear.

Not all of us at once!

"No. Perhaps not at first. Parents are often worse than their kids. If their children have attacked others—they’ll root for their own gene carriers, right or wrong. We’ll discuss it with them separately—and adjust their attitudes too. They must pay for your torn fabric and notions. I want you to remake and wear that dress in front of everyone."

Time wise, I don’t know if I can manage it again, Ceila answered, with a choking voice. I didn’t tear it up! And I have too many classes—and assignments!

Good reasonable answer, she admitted. "Give a drawing to a seamstress or tailor. Should cost them much more that way—or maybe I should force Mira to sew it herself."

Ceila thought she’d hurl her lunch. I won’t wear it, then.

The teacher sighed. "Understood. Perhaps the tailor is the better plan. Mira should be forced to take a job to purchase the tailor’s time with her own personal physical labor. It’s time Mira learned about that reality—without her parents’ protection from it. Your parents will want it replaced, certainly."

I… um… don’t have ‘parents’—only have my mom.

"Your grandmother must be notified, also. She’s your mother’s co-parent, isn’t she?"

Oh mannnn! the girl groaned.

Agreed? the counselor hoped. It’s that, or expulsion.

Ceila sighed. Ohhhhkayyyyy—

Your mom’s picking you up, Ms. Sybil told her. I think, after that crack on the head, you need to have it checked.

Ceila grinned brightly. You should have seen the other bitches!

I did, she replied (with a wry expression at the unintended self-inclusion). Between us, yes, they are, she concurred, "and so are you. You did hold your own very well—but you also threw the first fist, and the world is going to be chock-full of bitches and bastards. You absolutely may not hit them. Accept it and learn to deal with it now, Ceila. It probably was a cute dress, despite Mira’s brand designer label mentality. But ladies don’t look ladylike for long, not after fisticuffs. It’s hard on the wardrobe and furniture—also careers. And childish. You will all be required to apologize to each other—and mean it. Your parents will all be required to do exactly the same to each other for raising their children in this disappointing—unacceptable—way. Otherwise, expulsion is not off the table. For any of you. The apologies will ALL be suitable—or some of you WILL be gone."

Ceila sighed again, forlornly. (Sucking up to Mira! OMG!)

It was gonna kill her!

"Okayyy . . ." Grown-ups are no fun. Ever.

If only the cool girls were fun.

If only there was a cool grown-up she could talk to about it…

All anyone wanted to do was smash her down.

In a dimension far away, the Red Queen was about ready to smash her gold-gilded bedroom mirror, but reconsidering the excesses of her own temperament, she reconsidered… and smashed the vase across the floor instead. It shattered noisily to her satisfaction—the pieces exploding and skipping farther like pebbles on a pond. She whirled and—stomping to her chamber door—flung it open— Summon the Dodo to my private consulting room! she hollered at the guards across the hall.

She slammed the door and turned furiously to the mirror…

I asked you to show me the most Dangerous One of All—and you show me a petulant, fatherless brat distressed about a torn homemade frock! A mere child!

It never spoke; it only reacted to her spoken desires to view particular things—in short, usually to spy. But she made no further requests, so it only displayed her petulant, fat glare. She looked like an overdressed pig, and that ticked her off as well…

Then she did an unusual thing. She took the time to stop throwing things about—and reflect a moment. Unless a portal is opening without my knowledge, this can’t be the doing of my old Truth Bringer—certainly not now, she reviewed possibilities in a low voice to herself, "and it can’t be the girl called Alice. She’s not been reported for ages. Surely, no one would dare harbor her without my knowledge. The White Rabbit didn’t seem to know how she got in his house or who she is!"

In a swish of many skirts, Her Majesty spun round—her ample chest thrust forward like a prow and her gown fluttering like flags on a warship; she sailed swiftly down the wide hall. Startled courtiers hastened to be seen bowing quickly—or ran for it.

The Dodo came running into her large office room. Your Majesty called? he bowed.

She leaned back in the high majestic chair behind her desk, quill in hand, orders written out before her. Yes, Chancellor. I did.

What is it that you require, Majesty?

You shall summon the White Rabbit to me. There was an unexpected girl who literally vanished from his house. He did not know her.

Was it the girl from Victorian England? In the other dimension? he asked.

No. She was a girl of a different sort of color, I think, she considered. I’ve never seen it before. She had dark hair and her skin was a darker shade. Her yellow dress was shorter—also torn from a fight between girls.

Gracious!

Not Victorian England, the queen sniffed disdainfully. So it’s someone new here.

Very odd! declared the Dodo. Literally vanished? Like a ghost?

Yes, the queen replied. "I also wish to have the mirror cleaned—not just by a janitor—although that wouldn’t hurt. But I require a full coven of blood and nobility to clear it of any interfering… ‘energies’ and it must be tended to very discreetly."

So he bowed and left.

She didn’t really think the problem was the mirror… but that Ceila? Honestly! As to her earlier problem, she’d already beheaded many of her old Truth Bringer’s acolytes.

’Twas slightly after twilight one early October weekend: the winding maze of fencing—for those waiting to get in—was laced with monsters sneaking up to inattentive spook house guests; their startled screams were part of the entertainment. Half-way through the line, one’s party could be photographed with a fake, menacing zombie—for a slight fee. A visitor could buy anyone else’s photograph if it appealed; they’d be posted on the site.

A cheaper way to take someone else’s picture home was simply to lift one’s cell phone camera. Several were lifted now . . .

In the sculpted monster’s arms, an appealing looking woman was bent backward, her arms around his neck, and the crowd was hooting approval as she seemed to be about to kiss it amorously. She had wavy, raven hair—pulled back in a gold headband, crimson lipstick, smoky eye shadow and eyes so dark they seemed almost entirely made of pupils.

The woman was dressed as a sort of land-of-the-dead version of Alice in Wonderland: the dress and pinafore were in shades of blue-grey—with holes—as if worn by a corpse or mummy. The Drink Me bottle in her pocket was also marked with a skull and crossbones. She was striking, in a fortyish kind of way (but was actually far older than that—half again as much). She had been physically active in unusual jobs since her cartoon career had shipped overseas, and was aging slowly—in a Cinderella life… Her name was Emerald, but she had always been called, simply, Emma. She wasn’t merely young at heart; she was persistently child-like—fiercely so .

As the line wended its way closer to an unseen door, the monsters began to tally counts and arrange groups to enter in organized clusters of victims. The entrance doors—as well as the group lined up to face them—were all concealed from sight of the others not yet close enough to see what getting inside was actually going to involve…

… But whenever the doors slid open,

the party loaded in the entrance chute always screamed—in unison.

Emma—with none to stiffen her resolve—could hardly wait to see those gates of hell…

She was arranged only with a pair of young yuppyish-looking men with dark hair. They were wearing shirts and slacks and clearly were above getting into the spirit of anything as silly as a costume. No one else was put into their group of three. Emma wondered at it, and, as the two men got themselves protected firmly behind her, those gates rolled open. A startling blast of wind—and heat—met them in the face: a long, mesh cage, rocked—swaying over a pit of flames; dead bodies and ghoulish zombies beneath reached up…

It goes downhill from there—last chance to decide, the door monster warned…

Emma straightened up: she stepped carefully forward into the cage—the second guy pushed his companion in ahead of himself—behind her. It wasn’t as bad as the Oxnard Quake; she reasoned… and kept her balance well enough.

It took a long time to solve the series of rooms and scenes with maze-like entrances and exits. The way out of many—into the next—was to tempt incidents in the spookiest part of the set… a ghoul in a shroud shot up from a fireplace no one would desire to approach. (This caused a closed panel in a far wall to creak open.) Once in, there could be found no other way out except to provoke something more frightening.

Emma loved the game—and could handily predict where the most horrific thing could be found. The two men hung back—thoroughly creeped out and were girlishly unwilling to get near anything likely to jump at them. (Consequently, the embedded monsters were attracted to them—not Emma.)

She wished the door-grouping monsters had placed her with some people who’d participate—instead of constantly hanging back—studying her like some odd bug assigned to be their tour guide… She half expected one of them to leap into the other’s arms—any minute—both squealing like little girls…

I will solve this! she’d promised herself… It’s not so bad as a real asylum…

All the while sweating in her Gothic styled Alice costume, Emma wished the men would figure out the exits in at least a few scenes… without help, it was taking forever!

Upon safely exiting the 13th Floor while still in the lead of her small assigned group, Emma heard the cowardly yuppie behind her remark cheerfully to his similar companion:

Well, that wasn’t so bad! I thought it might be an ordeal, but it went well! declared the guy (to the one he’d shoved in front).

Going on this was a good idea: it was kind of fun, actually, agreed his shield.

Like following a dark Alice down a sick rabbit hole.

They both laughed.

She sure was—kind of a Goth-Alice! the shield chuckled. The outfit suited her!

Yeah, agreed his friend. She definitely can handle the ghoulish stuff.

All we had to do was watch how she did it.

If it was too scary for them to manfully trigger clues by poking faked Halloween delights (—helping to solve the damsel’s way through the horror-house maze—) the only thing scarier, Emma mused, is to be the dark Alice, coping with real-life descent into a genuinely sick rabbit hole.

For a long while her doctor had wanted her to take a break from the aftermath of dealing with her parents; Emma’s good fight to keep them happy—as normally as possible—in their own home had always been destined to be a lost cause: despite her struggle to hold the web of normal family life together; it had frayed—like her stamina and snapping nerves. The old people had declined together in the same wing of a dementia ward—and died a year apart in separate nursing facilities. Emma’s health had been affected by her prolonged efforts to keep the situation and finances under control.

The doctor hoped Emma would go see a few seasonable spook houses and have fun—less stress and pleasant distractions might give her vital stats better numbers; but the "insane asylum sets in the horror houses" seemed pale compared to the real ones…

While locked inside amidst seriously demented residents—until the understaffed aids could find time to help her exit—Emma frequently witnessed the horror of old bodies with entrapped spirits confused by feeble, crazy minds; they shuffled helplessly down limited white corridors with nothing to do all day but wait for the next sandwich or soup of the day. Beds had soiled adult diapers bagged under them; Emma had fired one facility and moved her parents to another—after finding her mother bent backward over the edge of such a bed—wearing only her diapers with the door open. (She’d been abandoned like that for over four hours, crying. They were only willing to attend to her when Emma began a sixty second countdown—out loud—to go fetch the police.)

All day the incarcerated old people struggled in vain to find something of interest—while endeavoring to avoid interaction with others worse than themselves: they all desperately wanted to be rescued!—and go home!

But… where had it gone? Why weren’t they allowed to go? Some believed it was somewhere just around the corner of some hall… if they could just find the right exit… but they were in the No Exit from hell.

The problem was that, small as such a staff at home may be, it contains no members willing to sacrifice themselves entirely to the one single consuming meaning left in life: preparing the increasingly frail and mindless for death—it is nothing like raising kids to go out in and prevail in the world. Yet such dying elders are large, mean and childish—with diminishing ability to understand what was coming… why didn’t their late spouse come for them? . . . They constantly forgot being told the dead were dead. (The implication being that they were next: this boring, failed-body-function-smelling ward was their death house.) They always mentally deleted that. There was soon no use telling them anymore.

(Pale painted teenagers with store-bought splattered blood come nowhere near such gruesome realities while crying in a whiny voice help me! Not a clue.) Consequently, Emma was disappointed in the comparatively bland horror house. It was good to get out and see a few efforts at entertainment, but maybe it would have been better without the chintzy mental ward scenes… ignorant ridicule just didn’t work.

The two men were still jovially talking about their lucky adventure: they followed the dark Alice outside—who’d helped them navigate the sick rabbit hole. You definitely had the feeling she was blasé about horror.

Yeah. Eats six impossible raw things for breakfast—

With sashimi for a chaser at lunch!

They laughed.

Emma felt irritated—and hungry. Danged if there wasn’t a Japanese restaurant—with sushi! And they were going in it. Normally, she wouldn’t mind indulging in raw fish-fits; she had a lot of mermaid dreams as a kid—but not after these two had predicted it…

Nah! she told herself.

She hopped back in the car and took off—for a rare quarter-pounder at Phuddruckers, with an orange-cream soda chaser. She was hungry as a zombie by now. Fish tidbits weren’t going to cut it at this point—if she’d sat too close to them, she’d end up picking up their checks after spending the night ‘saving’ their butts from a spook house. Nope.

It might have been better with an engaging child, rather than boring, self-satisfied men pretending too hard to be blasé—while clearly as scared as two little girls.

Emma set her tray down and reflected on past Halloween outings. Usually, she’d gotten partied up better in line… Once, a few years ago, she’d been grouped in a spook house with five silly girls who interacted like a bunch of swinging balls on strings—bouncing off each other! They’d forgotten she was added to their party; every time they saw her, they shrieked for their lives—banged into themselves and screamed again!—forgetting also they were with each other! Emma nearly died laughing! (She’d gone dressed as a witch in a black cloak—in her case, maybe unimaginative.) The teenagers exited, clinging to her like she was the protective engine of a choo-choo train. (They hadn’t wanted Mom with them, but needed a surrogate.) They were hilarious. (She told a ticket monster they’d been the best part of the show… so they gave the girls another round!—free! Fun night!

She almost wished she knew a kid to hang out with. Maybe some Big Sister program or some such? No idea. She needed something to improve the Halloween season…

Emma saw her own reflection in the window, munching thoughtfully. She washed the hamburger down with the orange cream soda and grinned. A younger version of herself, now that would be different! Could she even cope with it?

Careful what you wish for . . .

No spells, she told herself. Let the universe decide.

Poor Ceila was trying to attend class while avoiding people: she allowed herself to be tardy—and seated late—for a few days until she was better able to talk herself into getting on with life, post yellow-dress aftermath…

She tried to give herself very good advice as she rambled the halls in belated solitude, but she wasn’t entirely sure what to advise at the moment. Why had she always wanted a pretty blonde friend?—someone really cool! But nice—different looking from Ceila…

What was wrong with her, anyway? She had good grades… why not be happy with other geeks? They could speak clearly—choosing far more engrossing topics than average ‘Valley-girls’—with their vapid speech and worse values. Why did they matter so much?

Was part of it the belief in diversity itself? To Ceila, a blonde was exotic. She felt herself intelligent enough to mingle with other ethnic types and do it with panache, but was she fooling herself about having any? Panache, that is? (Or diverse friends?)

(Surely fisticuffs wouldn’t fall in that category.)

She should have been packing a loaded pocket-recorder—and so have been in a position to bust nasty bitches bent on improving their self-esteem with bullying and hate… and kept her own hateful fists to herself. How does one manage to pummel those you wish could be your friends? Ceila sighed. The wish makes one more vulnerable to them? And more resentful of it, perhaps? She supposed it possible. She was part white herself. But had no white friends.

Now, Mira was no Alice in Wonderland, any more than Kiera—or that other bitch. What’s-her-face. Why had she so wished they might turn out to be someone like that? Some particular type of playmate or friend had always been missing from her life. Someone as interesting as herself—who was accepting, adventurous—and fun. Able to fall down the deepest of holes, cope with the weirdest people and situations—and still prosper from it! She’d been a mile off target with those three… but she could think of nowhere else to look, at present—

Why did you look to them at all? she chided herself:

Why need a blonde fairy-tale princess?

Well… aren’t all fairy-tale princesses blonde? Golden haired, the stories all say. If you had dark hair, you got poisoned apples. (Arabian Nights came from a distant culture.) Wealthy girls were sort of like royalty: nice clothes, money to go out and see and do things. Eat where and when they like.

Bingo. You couldn’t have kept up. They knew that.

In order for Ceila to hang out with girls like that, such girls would always have to treat Ceila constantly to cover for her… um, well, yeah… poverty. They would never have any respect for one in need of such help. Even if she could sew well enough to fit in with skillfully made clothes, she could never really belong to that sphere. Not until after college—yeah right, as if her intellect could earn her that. She was not likely to scrape money enough for college, grades aside. (Others were seeking scholarships, she realized.)

But why did they have to attack her for making the dress?

It had certainly been nice enough—to threaten them and make them gang up to suppress her efforts to rise above the look of poverty stitch by stitch…

(Not allowed.)

Rule number one: If you can’t buy it, you’re not supposed to acquire it. Making things yourself lowers you. Makers are laborers . . . not investors. She found herself fighting a pool of tears—and slipping ever smaller in shrinking spirit—as she entered math class.

You’re late, said the teacher.

Wordless, she sat down, mumbling an apology, and shuffled through her book. She got into the lesson, however, and the laws of numbers began to give structure back to her again… at least a little. Numbers were fair, just, and offered solutions. One simply had to look—and think—without acquiring permission.

At the end of the school day, Ceila decided to check her emails before dinner, not certain what to hope or fear; Grandma didn’t care for modern technology, but she’d bartered a second-hand computer deal for her grandkids—in exchange for help constructing a memory quilt from old clothes that had belonged to a neighbor’s son. He had just been killed overseas in the service—in some explosion; she felt certain a computer would help connect her own family more normally to present-day standards of communication and information. (It also stressed them all with guilt—and an impending sense of opportunistic, bad karma—because it had been a dead soldier’s computer… and Ceila’s brother was now overseas in the service! She could not use the computer without thinking about this…)

Ceila opened her emails hopefully; there was a message from Jaxon:

I have a grandpa in New Mexico. He’s sort of a shaman. Anyway, he knows this weird wise woman who drops in and visits there a lot, but mostly, he gets emails from her over a computer the community uses at the trading store. He says she lives near us! Out here. She saw that whole fight thingy when she was scrying in a mirror ! She told him to tell me to tell you that if you look up at the roof, just under the awning near where you had the spat, there’s a camera the school and cops use to spy on drug dealers and kids buying from them. It records sound as well, so the stuff those girls said is on there. Anyway, that’s what they said to tell you. Oh. And she says for you to act like a lawyer will be after them soon for permitting bullying. Verbal assault is still a form of assault.

Hunh! Ceila was nonplussed. "Lawyer! As if we got money for that! They’ll know we’re too poor to have access to the law. You got to buy that same as a college degree!"

Jaxon—one of Ceila’s best geek friends—was a mutt like herself. His father was black, his mother had been white and Native American; he was skinny and slightly exotic looking—with horn rimmed glasses. His parents had purchased their home on the basis of being a dual-income family: then, she got sick and died. He and his dad were struggling to manage to stay in their house. (His father had had to apply for all kinds of assistance and it was humiliating for him.) Jax snapped up odd jobs when he could—and had empathy for Ceila, letting her borrow his own father occasionally as a useful paternal advisor—for she had none. So when Jax found information useful to any of her family, he was always eager to share…

She typed—out loud to herself, What’s ‘scrying’ exactly? Who is she?

But Jax—having a heavy homework load, had already gone off line—and there was no further reply that night.

Mirrors? Scrying? Shamans? Weirdester and weirdester! Curiouser too. Who was this woman?

Ceila shrugged. Okay. School camera for backup, maybe. She had a drama class, so she could perform a little, if need be. (Faking out the means to lawyer up might require that.)

For now, she needed to get back on track for the English folklore assignment. She knew just the folklore she needed: the thought of tweaking that job—made her smile.

Until the night wore on…

Chapter 2

Ceila Meets Alice Through the Looking Glass

(Curious Makeovers…)

Ceila was beginning to get very tired while sprawling by her book on the bed, and of having nothing to do—no ideas were coming into her head; once or twice she had peeped into the book she was reading; it had both pictures and conversations in it, but the account of adventures sort of rambled in meaningless whimsy. What’s the use of a book, thought Ceila, with no more than pictures or conversations in it? She’d always liked that story, but the assignment required finding way more. It harbored little plotline; its truths burrowed deep—hidden inside nonsense—like a rabbit down a dark hole.

She closed her eyes a moment; they felt red, itchy and tired. Ceila knew why she’d chosen that book: I need an Alice, she prayed. "Send me a real one. A friend that’s not about studying all the time." She wanted some fun; she was a kid, after all…

"I will myself to have the power to bring the real Alice to me!"

Dumber and Dumber.

She picked up her notes. "What is the most poignant, telling sentence in the story?" Ceila yawned and flopped back on the pillow… Poignant. Lessee here . . .

So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the long day—and the din downstairs and in her brothers’ rooms—made her feel very tired, head-achy, and almost stupid). Could such a phrase as —whether the pleasure of making a daisy chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her actually be considered poignant in any way? It was to her—especially since the knock on her head—but how to make anyone else understand? (Would it help if everyone else had a knock on the head?) She had to admit she didn’t know much about analyzing anything! (Not this late.) Why did all this nonsense ring deeply to her? Nonsense is supposed to make no sense!

Ceila? called a voice downstairs, How’s it coming? Are you doing your assignment?

Not really.

I’m on it, Mom, she hollered… and—with a gasp—jerked upright most unwillingly. Sometimes her mother seemed clairvoyant, she sighed. Then, looking drowsily at the notepad lying on the pillow, Ceila could see herself still lying on the bed—asleep!

The clock said… midnight. So her mother was asleep—as were they all! Her mother couldn’t have called her…

Just atop Ceila’s dresser sat the White Rabbit: he actually took a watch out of his waistcoat pocket, looked at it and cried—Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late! He hopped down out of sight—right through to the other side of the dresser mirror! (There seemed nothing so very remarkable going on—although it occurred to her afterward that she ought to have wondered at this!) Ceila jumped up after it and burning with curiosity, was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit hole under a weird hedge… around the bed at the other side of the mirror!

She shook her head in disbelief… then looked at her hand. Somehow she was holding the book… Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland . . . and Through the Looking-Glass.

But when she looked up at the mirror again, the hedge around the bed was gone. So was her own reflection! There was just the room in reverse. (And no Ceila.)

I am messed up! she muttered astounded. Maybe I need a CAT scan! No, don’t go there: It’s the course overload. I should never have done it! Ceila sighed and opened the book: she came across the poem Jabberwocky immediately.

On a sudden impulse—she held the book up to the mirror…

’Twas brillig, she began… then looked from the book at her image—it jolted her!

The equally startled girl before her wore a black velvet ribbon pulling back thick, blonde hair—and she had vivid blue eyes. She seemed to be wearing the top of a pinafore over a blouse—or something with puffed sleeves. The style was really strange—almost like a costume. Ceila touched her own face—as did the girl. Then they both stroked a strand of hair. Her own was of medium length, dark chocolate—and kinky—but the other girl’s hair was long, smooth and straight—so it took longer to get to the end of the strand. Ceila gasped; their motions went out of sync—they both leaned closer for a better look…

The girl’s complexion was pale and rosy; her own, she knew, was supposed to be a sort of warm, mocha color—and her own eyes were usually deep brown; by now they must be very large! Her own image was someone else! Ceila asked, timidly "Who are you?"

"I’m Alice, the girl replied in a nice voice… with a British accent. Who are you?"

(So the girl was seeing Ceila’s reflection—instead of her own!)

I’m Ceila, Ceila replied matter-of-factly. I live here.

You must be American, Alice said knowingly, for I’ve heard one speak before.

Ceila smiled at that. You look like the character in this book—same name too! Except she was a little girl, she explained, —around seven, I think. She tapped at the cover, excitedly. She went through a mirror at the start of the story.

Alice considered that book. "Seven and a half, I believe it was… but why are we seeing each other in the looking glass, then—instead of ourselves, do you suppose? she wondered. And why should this have anything to do with your book?"

We call them mirrors here, corrected Ceila. Then she added, "But I like your way better. I-I had this… book assignment from my teacher to analyze why a particular book has always been personally meaningful. I remembered the poem Jabberwocky—and was curious to see if holding it up to the ‘looking glass’ does anything like what occurs in the story. What has happened, do you think?"

We did the same thing together, Alice laughed. "I’m afraid I’ve been messing about with ‘mirrors’ again for some company, you see… She held up her book to the poem Jabberwocky. She blushed a bit. This situation is new, however."

Ceila laughed. Cool!

Alice lowered the book. I beg your pardon?

An expression. Ceila lowered her book. It means it’s really great.

Oh, said Alice a bit puzzled. An old familiar feeling was creeping over her about the misuse of reinvented words. "I am reminded of a certain Egghead who’d have claimed he paid the word extra for extra work." Then she set her book aside—out of sight.

Ceila did the same. Yeah, I read about a character like that. Humpty Dumpty, wasn’t it? The part I read, he was really full of himself.

Indeed. Unpleasant fellow.

I’ve a middle brother like that. Also an egghead. School’s easier for him, so he doesn’t try. Figures, right? I fight for my grades. Really tiresome.

Yes, most unfair… Alice was looking around at the room from over the mantelpiece, growing curiouser and curiouser. That’s how things work, ironically. My Egghead cracked from overdoing things.

Wait! Ceila cried. "You’re saying—you met Humpty Dumpty?"

Yes.

"Who fell off a wall?"

As in the rhyme. Exactly like that.

Have you been to Wonderland?

Well—yes, said Alice, as if: of course!

"So it’s you! Ceila gasped The Alice! But you’re older now, not ‘seven and a half!"

"What’s your age?" Alice asked thoughtfully.

Twelve—and a half.

"Ah. I would have advised to leave off at thirteen—she grinned knowledgably—but it’s too late now. We’re both of much the same plight."

Hunh, was all Ceila could think of. This is so strange… She was no longer seven and a half: why should this old story matter to her—still? Why Alice? Is this a dream?

I don’t know, Alice admitted. I’m rather wondering the same thing. Ah! What, exactly, was your assignment? Perhaps—to meet in this way—might we need each other?

Ceila cleared her throat, for she hadn’t exactly done the assignment yet. "Uh, well, y’see, I must read a ‘classic’ children’s story and do an essay about what it means at an adult level. Not just describing the plotline, but, you know, what it was supposed to teach. Like ‘story medicine for a fledgling spirit—or society—to grow up on.’ Like that."

"Why, some nonsense tales are meant purely for pleasure, defended Alice, —with nothing to ‘teach’." (Despite being a traditional defender of logic, she loved nonsense).

"I suppose even pleasure ends up teaching something regardless of intent," remarked the sagacious little Ceila. She hoped she was right—or her choice could be trouble.

Likely, I daresay, admitted the equally wise little Alice… for she had already experienced the consequences of gratifying curiosity… but already she was peering around Ceila’s shoulder… longing for a new, strange excursion over the mantelpiece . . .

(It would seem like such dreadful manners without any invitation . . . yet a room that looked like that! Well!—but Ceila was just standing there—not inviting anyone!)

Ceila tried to regain Alice’s attention. "Hey! Y’know what? I’ve always really liked Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—and also Through the Looking-Glass—without knowing exactly why. So I picked them. They’re about you, right?"

A friend named Charles Dodgeson made them up for me and my sisters—while we were boating, said Alice uncertainly, "He’s writing them down for me. The girl in his story was sort of like me—and given my name, you see."

"So you’re the real Alice?" Ceila rather begged.

"I’m certainly real enough to me," Alice replied, feeling a little vexed at no invitation yet… perhaps Ceila couldn’t imagine any impossible things before dinner…

Okay, Ceila thought about that… Well, I seem to need to know why your fairytale adventures matter to me before I can do the assignment, but that makes no sense! I mean I don’t look like you, you’re not really that Alice—and our experiences aren’t the same at all. We’re nothing alike…" There was something sad in her voice… something disappointed that grabbed the English schoolgirl’s attention.

So sure? doubted Alice gently—in some amusement. "I should say you initiated this strange coincidence yourself. We certainly must share something in common—or how could we even see each other so quickly in such a way as this? Maybe looks and manners aside, we really are alike—in the doldrums: dissatisfied with our own world times."

I beg your pardon, Ceila mirrored Alice’s speech—unintentionally.

It isn’t manners to beg, Alice pompously repeated someone else she’d once patiently heard—and then grinned.

(‘Twas from the book itself; they both chuckled…)

My governess has asked me to write about a more inclusive world for girls, Alice explained— "and weren’t we both curious to see ‘Jabberwocky’ reversed—to see if it works? Also we’re both of an age—older than when that story was first told."

"Curiosity triggered this?—versus doldrums?" Ceila thought it should take a bit more.

Curiosity triggers a great deal in the world, you know, Alice replied cryptically. "My first visit—in the book—to Wonderland started out being merely about satisfying curiosity. But since he told it, I’ve had many odd dreams that I was actually doing the things in the story! I always enter Wonderland through mirrors! she hinted. Either it’s changed—for the worse, or my understanding has ended much naiveté!—about societies. I now believe that curiosity must lead to a series of tests—about coping with the deceptions of people such as those in one’s own country!"

Ceila noted, "Until you end up wishing you could have your ignorance back."

Alice smiled at her. You’re a bit cynical, aren’t you? she asked her new friend. Curiosity complicates things. And unreasonable people can even be dangerous!

"‘Off with her head!" cried Ceila.

Somewhat, Alice recalled, With everyone stepping on eggshells over her temper!

Savage cow!

Dreadful! Alice cringed. "Oddly, the only escape I found was to stand up to them all. It isn’t really in my nature—even now: I’m a little shy, she admitted, her blue eyes wide, It makes being brave harder, you know. I think building nerve takes practice."

Ceila nodded… and gulped, for she was having some hard spots with a lot of hard people lately: some of them were in the news—far away and powerful—and there was no way of contending against their governing reach over her helpless family…

Angry helplessness brought a lump to her throat… that flinched across her face.

Alice looked at her anxiously, blinked, and, clearing her own throat, went on… "Um, anyway, it turns out that standing up to some simply puts one in worse danger. I got lucky when the card soldiers turned into leaves as they rose up after me, but that was because I woke up, she chuckled. Just as my character in the book did."

That’s a lame way to get a character out of a tight spot, sneered Ceila. As if.

"As if what?" Alice waited for the rest of the line…

"As if it could happen, you know. Oh, but I loved the part where you called them ‘nothing but a pack of cards!’ Turning them into leaves by denouncing them was like magic!—just waking up reduced them."

"You wish you could do that," Alice surmised, gently.

Yes, Ceila admitted. "Sometimes I wish I could be… sort of magical… less… powerless. It’s like I’m losing myself and even others around me…" (She fought for self-control.)

"But you already are magical!" Alice cried.

How do you mean? asked Ceila, brightening.

Well, Alice insisted, eagerly, "what’s happened here, just now—is magic! You’ve summoned me! And maybe for you, this favorite story has real magic and power. To help you remember who you are. Maybe your book itself is like a talisman."

Ceila asked bewilderedly: Or a spell book?

Perhaps, Alice mused. "But I think you’re what makes the book and mirror work! My mirror has done plenty for me!"

Ceila thought about that; her brows furrowed. "Are we witches? I always feel so helpless! Or am I merely dreaming now? I saw myself lying on the bed when I got up to get the book. She looked over her shoulder. I’m not there now! What does that mean?"

I wouldn’t know. Alice sighed. "I might be dreaming you. I’ve had that happen many times to me before. Maybe we each represent something the other needs to learn."

If you wake up, will I go out like a candle? asked Ceila uneasily.

Or the other way around, said Alice. Aren’t you real enough to yourself?

It’s the sleeping White King dilemma, Ceila recalled uneasily. What should we do?

"Have the dream! Alice replied. Waking will be waking. If one is dreaming, one wakes up. If one is living life, it will die out. We should just enjoy making use of it—while we’re in whatever it is. There’s no point in being afraid. When it comes, it comes."

But what lessons could such a dream as this unlock? (Ceila did not like the idea of going out like a candle if she was Alice’s dream!) If one can’t decide whether challenging dangerous creatures—or unfair ways of life—is only a dream, Ceila considered more calmly, "then childish courage—inspired by curiosity—may be the greatest nonsense of all. Dumb, even!—not necessarily favorable to one’s survival!"

Alice was a bit startled—"Why, I’d never intentionally do anything unfavorable to my survival—out of mere curiosity—that is, she caught herself in the lie—I do try to give myself very good advice—regardless as to whether I seldom ever follow it…"

Ceila grinned at that shortcoming—a blonde could get away with it: The meek inherit the earth only by laying low—or playing cute and dumb, you realize. There was a touch of bitterness to her voice at the end of that.

Alice wasn’t sure what was not being said out loud, here, but as she felt certain some stressful issue was still lurking: hidden… class and ethnicity?

"I got a sequel to your story," Ceila warned Alice, "for grown-ups only, I imagine," she mused aloud to herself.

About?

It’s called ‘ethics,’ my grandma says, she replied, "doing right—for the well-being of others—unselfish courage—can cause great personal loss. Terrible, sad loss."

—against which the greater good to others might have to be weighed, Alice reflected.

Ceila said a bit bitterly, "This is what children’s fairy tales should instruct: some ‘happy endings’ require cruel sacrifices of good people. They don’t come back."

Alice finished it for her bluntly. "But if you truly put others first, you could go snuffed out like a candle."

Or live an unthriving life, Ceila said angrily, I say: the sooner you know it’s a mean, unjust world, the better. Skip disappointment. Odd—she felt a little ashamed of herself.

"But a truth like that can’t go in a children’s book, Alice reminded her gently: It’s not a pleasant ending—and grownups would never allow it. We are not supposed to know of such truths yet—not at our age, I believe." It was said rather dryly.

We’re not stupid!

Alice looked at her carefully—a bit worriedly.

Ceila’s eyes welled with tears: she broke off and looked down with a gulp—sniffling fumbling with a tissue.

Alice had to ask gently, What is the matter? She found herself waiting . . .

Ceila blew her nose; We have dire ‘Jabberwockies’ here. Ceila made herself look up and try to smile. I’m sorry. It’s just that I-I just have a brother in the air force. You know… overseas.

Alice’s brow knit. "Air force? What in the world is that?"

Oh! We have aircraft now.

"Aircraft?"

Yeah. We fly. In machines.

Not even touching your fingertips to a stair rail?

Ceila was startled now. What? Then she remembered the floating-down-to-the-garden episode in the Looking Glass book. Oh, right. Wait a minute. She went to the dresser and pulled a brochure out of a drawer…

Alice’s eyes followed eagerly as she stood on tiptoes: she leaned closer to her looking glass… Ceila had not the least notice of Alice’s longing—How am I to get in? she wondered…)

Ceila came back. She held up a recruitment brochure. The corners were a bit dog-eared. Here. Look. She pointed at a jet. See? These travel fast. That’s called the ‘cockpit.’

"They… raise cocks for fighting in them?" Alice asked confusedly.

In a way. Men are trained to act like cocks in them—and fight each other. Then she added, "The enemy shoots at these jets