Killing Time

Killing Time

Or

How the Hatter Murdered Time and the Trial that Ensued

In Alice in Wonderland the Mad Hatter explains to Alice that he is trapped in a never-ending tea party because the Queen of Hearts sentenced him to death for ‘murdering time.’ He escapes death, but Time itself is so incensed at this attempt on his life he stops himself at 6:00 pm., freezing the Hatter at that moment for eternity.

One

The White Rabbit was in his lab, adjusting the formula of the red paint for the Queen’s roses when her messenger arrived. His first batch had been a delicate, sweet smelling compound, guaranteed not to offend the white roses—yet it had. They said it left an irritating, soapy residue on their delicate petals and they objected to the smell. They insisted it reminded them of lavender even though, to the White Rabbit’s keen nose, it smelled more of Eau de Cologne. They immediately cast off the paint in a fit of petulance. The Queen, no stranger to fits of petulance herself, assaulted him with insults and threats of decapitation if the problem was not solved immediately. So, for the last two days, he had barely left his lab except to sleep.

The Queen’s messenger, one of the thirty-six numbered playing cards that made up the palace guard, stood hunched over, catching his breath as if he had run the entire distance from the palace to the White Rabbit’s lab. No small feat, the White Rabbit mused, for a character with a two-dimensional body, a skinny limb at each corner and a head perched on top. He wondered how such an unstable individual had fared running against the stiff breeze along the clifftops. His frame was not designed for speed, nor was it especially stable in a wind.

Finally, he could wait no longer. His patience was limited. “You have a message for me, I presume?”

“Yes your…” The card looked him over, uncertain what title or rank to affix to the little white rabbit before him. He took in the well-cut jacket, only partially hidden beneath a white lab coat, precisely knotted bow-tie and expensive watch chain that was almost certainly attached to an equally expensive pocket watch. He surmised the little fellow must be a citizen of some standing, but beyond that he knew nothing. “…lordship,” he finished lamely.

The White Rabbit shrugged. He was used to arbitrary titles. One of his servants called him ‘Yer Honor’, and the other one always referred to him as ‘Guv’. He disliked both titles equally. Mister Rabbit was a suitable title, he always thought. It was respectful but not too colorful, elevated yet not aristocratic. He despised aristocracy. He had always longed to be known simply as W.R. It communicated approachability, an easy manner and a love of companionship. Unfortunately, these were characteristics in which he was totally lacking. He found his fellow citizens of Wonderland to be dim witted, crass and boorish. They, in turn, found him unapproachable, disparaging and aloof. There was no bridge and, certainly, no two letters of the alphabet that were long enough to bridge the canyon that divided them.

“Will you be relaying this message any time soon, do you think?”

“Yes, your er… The Queen demands your presence at the palace immediately.”

“That’s it? No reason given for the summons?” W.R. kept his voice stern and steady, yet inside he had begun to tremble uncontrollably. Nothing good ever came of a summons to the palace. The Queen of Hearts moods were as changeable as a cat’s appetite.

“It’s for some sort of performance,” replied the guard vaguely. He looked around at his surroundings, as if seeing them for the first time. The lab, from the outside, had appeared small and innocuous. A low, squat structure of red brick, dotted with numerous windows and a pitched roof that swept up to the earthen bank under which it nestled, yet inside it was cavernous. Rows of benches laden with beakers and test tubes shared the floor with drill presses, lathes and other heavy-geared machinery. Ropes and chains dangled from the rafters like jungle vines. Banks of electric lights that grew closer together the further into the building one progressed, cast daylight into even the darkest corner. A thick, viscous smell of machine oil, mixed with chemical vapors and other assorted aromas, excited the senses. “What is this place?”

“Nothing you would understand,” replied W.R. dismissively. Indeed, in his head, he was already alone and was now pondering the implications of the summons. Had he been too tardy in formulating a new paint? Had he somehow, in some inexplicable way, offended the Queen for some other vague, distant trespass? Her moods were so changeable and her thought process so tangled one could never predict what would upset her. The only thing he could do was to get to the palace as quickly as possible, even if that meant arriving without the reformulated paint. With luck, she would have forgotten the paint and be totally obsessed with whatever had piqued her interest or earned her disapproval today. She, like most other citizens of Wonderland, tended to live in the moment. Planning, introspection and cataloging past deeds were left to W.R. to take care of. It allowed very little time for fun and spontaneity. Though, in truth, they were two of the things that interested him the least.

He ushered the messenger, who seemed in no hurry to leave, out of his lab and bustled down the dirt track to his house. As he swung open the gate and strode through his garden, he glanced towards the pole beans that were standing as tall as a clump of trees on their trellis frames. Mr. and Mrs. Springer were there, swaying dreamily in the breeze; the finest beans from the finest family in the land. W.R. always started his day with a plate of Springer family beans and never failed to complement them on their fine taste and texture. The Springer boys, Tom and Jack were nowhere to be seen. They were no doubt dashing through another part of the garden, full of youthful energy and abandon. W.R. considered it was this recklessness that gave them their superb taste, and so was apt to overlook any transgressions or rudeness on their part. It was a courtesy he was unlikely to extend to anyone else.

His servant Bill, a green skinned, tall and wiry lizard, who had been in his service forever, met him at the back door. “Afternoon, guv.. er, sir. A messenger from the palace came by earlier. The Queen requests your company this evening at her feast or opera or something.” Though impressive in stature, W.R. considered his servant had the mental capacity of an acorn. Perhaps that was unkind of him. After all, on a few occasions he had shown some real insights into quite complex problems that had stymied W.R. for weeks. “He was a bit vague on details,” Bill continued, “but he was very insistent he should deliver the message in person. I had him explain it to me a few times so I could get it all straight in my head because I didn’t think you would have the patience… I mean, the time to question him on the details, what with all the work you have on your plate right now an’ all.”

The opera. Clarity at last. And it had only taken two servants to enlighten him! He had impressed the King and Queen with the opera he had recently produced, entitled The Pirates of Penzance. It was based on a music sheet he had brought back from one of his trips Topside. Although he didn’t fully understand some of the subtleties of the piece, he had surmised there was humor in it. He often recognized humor, especially in the printed word, but seldom understood it. At the time, he had doubted anyone else in Wonderland would either, but there was music and dancing and everyone loved those things. The weeks he had spent casting the roles, rehearsing and organizing everything from the orchestra to the scenery, even the placement of the chairs for the audience, had paid off. It had been a resounding success. So much so that the Queen had demanded his return Topside to bring back another.

That had been weeks ago. He did return Topside, not because the Queen had ordered it but because it called to him. He had no control over when he went. A feeling, a craving, would come over him that grew in intensity the longer he delayed until he could stand it no longer. He would have to make his way to the library in the hollowed-out tree stump and follow one of the tunnels to the end. Refusing was not an option. The craving would grow in intensity, clouding his mind, filling his thoughts, restricting every action except those that propelled his feet towards the library. The tunnel itself was filled with nightmarish images and sounds so terrifying that only his muddled mind prevented him from experiencing them in their full intensity. To go through that tunnel without the benefit of clouded thought was unthinkable. Once out the other side he would be in Topside, though each trip would put him in a different era. One time he could be in the age of knights on horseback, the next, an age of metal flying machines, the next of cave dwellers and fierce creatures. There was no pattern to it. It was completely arbitrary.

Once up there, the need to retrieve something – anything, was overpowering. It took considerable strength of will to force his mind to concentrate on one thing in particular and, if he stayed too long, he found his concentration wavering. Before long, he would feel a growing desire to drop down onto all four legs and hop. An urge to nibble on lush green grass instead of meticulously prepared runner beans began to dominate his mind, and he knew that if he stayed much longer he would revert to a more primitive stage like the other creatures in this harsh world. His magnificent intellect would be replaced with a primal urge to forage and mate. His achievements in Wonderland such as creating electricity for his lab, and the huge batteries to store the excess, would count for nothing in this world. He would be a mindless creature living by instinct alone.

“I shall have to put on my best waistcoat and jacket,” said W.R. brusquely, in an attempt to dispel these disturbing images.

“And white gloves guv… er, sir.”

“Thank you, Bill,” W.R. scowled. He knew palace protocol better than anyone in Wonderland. Why Bill would think he had to remind him of the obvious was offensive. That was Wonderland for you, he thought; full of tedious creatures stating the obvious or clouding the obvious with foolish sentiments.

Two

W.R. arrived at the palace to find the royal couple set up on the grand lawn. A large dais had been hurriedly erected (judging by the way it wobbled alarmingly whenever anyone moved) and thirty or forty chairs arranged in uneven rows upon it. At the rear, another low platform had been placed over the first, on which rested the thrones for the King and Queen. Facing the dais was a rickety looking stage, bare of anything that could define it as a stage, besides its elevated height. On it was a dining table and chairs, set with dinner plates and wine glasses. It looked abysmally impromptu; nothing at all like the set he had produced for his production of Pirates of Penzance.

“Rabbit,” the Queen screeched on spying him. She seemed to be in a good mood but, even in a good mood, the Queen could sound abrasive. “You’re late. We’ve been waiting for you.”

He thought about laying the blame for his tardiness on the hapless messenger but realized the unfairness of it. Knowing the Queen, she had probably waited until the last moment to send someone to summon him. Had he been organizing the event, as he usually organized everything of importance in Wonderland, invitations would have gone out weeks in advance of the performance. He wondered how much time for rehearsal the actors been given. It had taken him a considerable amount of time in auditions alone to find anyone who could act and sing convincingly, and then weeks in rehearsals to get it just right. Perhaps, for the sake of expediency, the Queen had used those same actors.

He couldn’t even remember what opera he had brought back with him from Topside. His mind had been very clouded at the time. He believed it had something to do with Prague. He had recently fallen in love with the architecture of that ancient city after viewing some colored photographs of it in a book from a later era. When he returned to Wonderland, his head still fuzzy from the experience, he had hurried to the palace. The Queen had been in a bad mood and seemed to hold him responsible for whatever had caused it. He stammered that he had been Topside, seeking her opera, hoping that would appease her. She snatched the sheets out of his trembling paw and thrust it at the Duchess, declaring for all to hear, “I shall handle the production of this opera myself. It will be the best the kingdom has ever seen.” The kingdom, at that point, had seen only one opera, but the point had been made; the White Rabbit was in the Queen’s bad books.

“I apologize for the delay, your majesty—“

“Sit, sit, Rabbit,” the Queen barked in excitement. “It is about to start. The first performance of Time.”

W.R. searched around for a nearby chair.

“Here. Here, Rabbit. Sit between his majesty and myself.”

W.R. looked with dismay at the tiny space between the thrones. He was to sit on the floor. How humiliating. The Queen, on the other hand, was fairly bouncing in her seat with excitement.

“Let the opera begin,” the Queen bellowed at the top of her voice. She had a toastmaster for such announcements but there was nothing she enjoyed more than bellowing orders herself. The toastmaster had been relegated to preparing her breakfast.

The actors shuffled on stage and, after much confusion, took their seats at the table. W.R. was shocked to see that not one of the actors he had chosen for Pirates was among the cast. In fact, no one presently on stage had even shown up for the audition. They all looked as if they were about to face execution, not star in a royal performance.

“This will be the best performance of Time the world has ever seen,” the Queen declared brightly, then added, “If not, heads will roll. Here, Rabbit, follow along,” and she thrust a wad of paper into his hands.

It was the script he had brought back from Topside. As he read the title he could barely suppress a groan. It was not about Prague. It was not even about another beautiful city. It was called A Feast in The Time of Plague. The Queen had chosen to fixate on the word Time; all he could see was the word Plague. This was going to be unbearable in the extreme. No one in Wonderland knew what Plague was, but he had been Topside in an age when it was rampant. There was misery and suffering beyond anything he had ever witnessed before. He too had no idea what a plague actually was or why it was so destructive, but he had seen the effects of it, heard its name uttered in fear, and knew it had no place in Wonderland.

A mouse had been entrusted with the female lead role. Her voice was as diminutive as her size. Everyone strained to hear what she was singing, leaning forward in expectation of picking up a trace of her words.

“Louder,” the Queen barked, but that only produced a momentary rise before she sank back into inaudible murmuring. “What’s wrong with the girl?” She glared at W.R. as if he held the answer.

“She is very small, your majesty,” he stammered when her unflinching gaze made it obvious she did indeed seek his opinion. “Perhaps someone of more substantial proportions might produce more significant results.”

The Queen made as if to argue the point, then turned abruptly in the direction of the stage and yelled, “Stop singing. Desist in your caterwauling, you graceless rodent. You, yes you, fool with the cloth cap hiding in the corner like a potted plant. Start singing.”

The fool in question was the Hatter, a somewhat flamboyant character whose main occupation, when not making hats, was displaying them in public by wearing them rakishly around town. From his cloth hat, shabby boots, frayed jacket and apron, it was obvious he had been dragged from his place of work with no time to change into something more theatrical. Tearing his hat off his head and mangling it in his frantic hands, he shuffled nervously towards the front of the stage.

“This one looks like he can hold a note,” said the Queen with satisfaction. “Look at the size of his Adam’s apple. That is a sure sign of a strong tenor. Sing!” she barked when he remained rooted to the spot, mutilating his poor hat in his agitated hands.

“Your majesty,” he croaked, and then looked as if he was about to swoon at his audacity. “I…I don’t’ know the words.”

“How can you not know the words? Haven’t you studied the song sheet?” The Queen, whose patience was best described as limited, was rapidly losing what little remained.

“I didn’t get a song sheet. Two guards dragged me out of my shop and told me I was to put on a play or something.”

W.R. had never had much tolerance for the Hatter. He found his ridiculous riddles, that had no coherent answer, tiresome and his madness an annoying affectation to gain attention. On the other hand, his close friend the March Hare truly was mad. In fact, his madness was so potent it seemed anyone who came in contact with him was in danger of losing their sanity too. Despite his prejudice, W.R. could not help but feel for the Hatter as he writhed in distress.

“The play is about Time,” the Queen admonished, demonstrating what W.R. already suspected, that she had not even glanced at the script. “Sing something about time. Anything!” Her voice rose and her brow creased in displeasure. Those fearful words that every citizen dreaded could only be moments away from escaping her lips.

The Hatter may have been mad but he was not stupid. He valued his head far too much to give the Queen a reason to separate it from his body. With more fortitude than musical ability, he launched into something resembling a song. It resembled a song only insomuch that it contained words and some sort of melody, though the words made no sense and the melody changed repeatedly. It was almost as if he had condensed an entire opera into thirty seconds of painful translation.

W.R. watched as the Queen’s face changed from red, to crimson, to some color similar to an overripe eggplant. Her body convulsed and her lips trembled as they tumbled over each other to get the words out. Then, as if propelled from her seat by a hidden spring, she abruptly rose to her full, intimidating height and screamed “Off with his head!”

A gasp went up from the audience. Although it was not unexpected, the fury and unbridled hatred behind her words shook them. The Hatter seemed to lose all control of his leg muscles. He sank to the floor in a pitiful heap, burying his face in his hands and sobbing uncontrollably.

“Off with his head,” the Queen screamed again and finally, the guards who had appeared frozen to the spot, rushed the stage in an unruly mob with each one vying to be the first to lay hands on the prisoner. They grabbed the poor Hatter and yanked him to his feet where he stood, supported on both sides by the guards, sobbing uncontrollably.

The King coughed delicately. “My dear, are you sure his crime is worthy of such a punishment? Would perhaps banishment not be more appropriate?”

It seemed to W.R. that the King’s principle duty consisted of reversing every sentence of execution. It was the Queen’s preferred method of dealing with those who displeased her and, since everyone at some point in time upset her, the kingdom would have become quite depopulated had it not been for the King gently steering his wife away from such extreme measures. This time, however, she was not to be swayed by his soothing arguments.

“He has butchered my opera. He has murdered Time. What crime is more deserving of execution than murder!” She turned her attention back to the hapless Hatter. “You have murdered Time, you crackbrained ingrate,” she reiterated, perhaps under the impression that her rowdy aside with her husband had been too hushed for the Hatter to overhear. “I gave you the chance to shine in front of all Wonderland, and you repay me with this…this…” Lost for words she looked askance of W.R., someone who always had the right expression for those who exposed a lack of aptitude.

He felt his skin flush and the fur on the back of his neck bristle at the unwelcomed attention. Every instinct in his body told him to make himself as small and as still as possible. Why he thought this would help, he could not tell. He knew his white fur and his usual bright blue jacket made him as conspicuous as a lighted candle on a moonless night, but something more primal than common sense took over him whenever he felt threatened.

“I think his majesty,” he began, hoping to ally himself with the King and his more lenient judgement, but, as the Queen’s eyes flashed and her nostrils flared, he lost his nerve. “Might be persuaded to reconsider his opinion,” he finished lamely. Instantly he felt ashamed for not having the courage of his convictions. After all, it was hardly the Hatter’s fault that the Queen had produced an opera without the slightest preparation.

The King looked nonplussed. W.R. could almost see what was going through his mind. No one had ever questioned his decision to commute a sentence, especially not the White Rabbit. He was known throughout the kingdom for his intellect and if, in his position as royal prosecutor, he thought the Hatter deserved execution too, then the Queen had to be right.

“What have I done,” he berated himself. “I cannot allow that fool the Hatter to be executed for singing badly at a function he was forced to participate in.”

The Queen was on a winning streak. Seldom had she been allowed free reign with regard to executions. She was determined not to dally and give the King the chance to talk her out of it.

“Take him to the chopping block,” she ordered. There was a gaiety in her tone that W.R. found unsettling.

“The courtroom, I believe your majesty means,” he said, summoning up his last vestige of courage. Her face, which had settled back to its usual mushroom colored paleness, began to glow red again. W.R. quickly averted his eyes and pressed home his point with the King. “That is where our most serious cases are tried, your majesty.”

The King nodded sagely. “Indeed, I believe Mr. Rabbit is quite correct my dear.” He flashed his wife an adoring smile and some of the redness left her cheeks.

“But the culprit is here,” she persisted. “We are here. The jury,” she cast her hand over the assembled guests, “are here. Our prosecutor is here.” She treated W.R. to another withering glare. “Let’s just get on with it.” She turned her full attention to the audience. “What is your verdict, guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty,” came back the unanimous response. No one who valued their head would dare return any other verdict.

“The accused needs counsel, your majesty,” W.R. breathlessly interjected. “Someone to defend him,” he added to her blank stare. It required every atom of courage in his little body to contradict the Queen yet again.

“Defend this murderous—,” she began but the King quickly interjected.

“The Dodo should do nicely, don’t you think?”

The Dodo was shocked into inaction. He sat rooted to his seat as if made of stone, an expression of desperation written across his foolish face. W.R. quickly tried to steer the proceedings onto a more rational path.

“Perhaps someone with more experience of the law?” he began, but from the King’s dispassionate expression he knew his argument was already lost.

“Nonsense,” chided the King gently. “The Dodo has all the experience necessary to convict a known felon.”

“Murderer,” corrected the Queen, drowning out W.R.’s feeble attempt to amend convict to defend. “Let us start the proceedings now. Or do we need to move to the courthouse to make this an official trial?” Her menacing glare made it quite obvious what answer was expected.

W.R. had his strengths, but standing up to the King and Queen was not one of them. In their formidable presence, he positively wilted. With a resigned shrug, he took his place on the stage. The other actors hurriedly vacated their chairs and sat on the available seats among the members of the ‘jury.’ He placed a comforting paw on the Hatter’s leg as he passed by, but the fellow was so distraught it did not even register with him. W.R. waited patiently while the Dodo, almost catatonic with fear, was ushered onto the stage. The silly creature stood there eyeing the Hatter as if he was a bomb about to explode. Every now and then he would steal a glance towards the raised dais where the royal couple waited expectantly, then hurriedly avert his eyes.

This is going to be a total travesty, W.R. thought despondently. That halfwit hasn’t the nerve or the wherewithal to defend his client. W.R. felt he could not, in all conscience, prosecute the Hatter to the fullest measure of the law but the Queen demanded his head and the King demanded a trial. He had to give them something that would appease them both. Maybe a trial with a happier ending?

He pulled himself up to his full impressive height of twenty-three inches, adjusted the hem of his jacket, faced the audience and launched into his opening argument.

“This fellow here, the Hatter, is accused of murdering Time. Now I know what you are all thinking; how can time, an abstract concept, be murdered? Only living creatures can have their life unfairly taken from them, can’t they? You would be correct in that assumption—“

“For the purposes of this trial,” the King interjected, “Time from this point on will be referred to as He.” The Queen beamed in delight at this loophole. It had not occurred to her.

The Dodo nodded rapidly in agreement. W.R.’s shoulders slumped. Saving the Hatter from execution had just been made impossible.

“A candle can be snuffed out before its time,” sniffed the Hatter. “Why not Time?”

“Thank you for that helpful insight, Hatter,” W.R. blasted back. The last thing W.R. needed was for the defendant to support the prosecution’s case. But quite rapidly it occurred to him that the Hatter had inadvertently provided him a new line of defense.

“Mr. Dodo, let me interject before you state the obvious,” W.R. barreled on, while the Dodo distractedly fiddled with a stray wing feather. “If time can be murdered, if the life of a candle can be carelessly snuffed out, if dust can be blown away, an ornament knocked off, a tree felled, a letter dispatched, a stain rubbed out, a moment wasted, then aren’t we all guilty of murdering something? Or, if we personalize them, someone?”

The Dodo stared at him, uncomprehending then went back to fixing his wing feather. The Hatter nodded sagely, through tears of anguish, and the audience cast about their neighbors with guilty faces. The Queen was turning an ugly shade of red—again. The King was looking thoughtful and insecure. He was not a deep thinker at the best of times and it was obvious he was having trouble dealing with this new concept. W.R. decided he would nudge the King in the right direction. Although not a philosopher, the King was intrinsically fair-minded and it was to that quality W.R. hoped to appeal.

“These examples bear no relationship to the trial on hand. In fact, I feel it was unprofessional of Mr. Dodo to bring it up at all. I suggest we put Time in a separate category, apart from all those other examples of inanimate concepts, and proceed as if no one was guilty of murdering any of them. Only Time shall be allowed special, living status and only the Hatter must suffer the consequences for having murdered him.”

The Queen grinned broadly. It was obvious from her countenance that, only seconds before, she believed she was in danger of losing her evening’s entertainment. Now she was deliriously happy and ready to bestow her largesse upon W.R.

“Wait a moment, Mr. Rabbit,” the King interjected. “The Dodo has raised a valid point.” In an aside to his wife he whispered, “He’s quite an astute fellow, that Dodo. We should make a note of that. He asks, how can we try the Hatter for murder when we are all guilty of the same crime in some small way? Either we classify everything as worthy of life, in which case we are all guilty, or we classify non, in which case the Hatter has done no wrong.”

The Queen had been unusually restrained throughout the whole proceedings, but now she gave vent to her feelings in her usual unbridled fashion.

“Done no wrong! He has murdered my opera. He took a thing of beauty and enchantment and choked it to death with his awful singing. I demand his head!”

The King laid a comforting hand on her arm. It seemed only to enrage her more.

“It’s true my dear, he did indeed destroy what promised to be a wonderful, lighthearted and entertaining opera about feasting and plague and…”

“Time.”

“Time, yes. And for that he deserves punishment. But murder, when this morning our staff did many of the ‘murderous’ things the Dodo mentioned. Did the candles suffer when they were snuffed out? Did the opera suffer because of the Hatter’s awful voice? It is for certain we did, but I don’t think the opera had any feelings on the matter.”

“Then the Hatter should pay for our suffering.”

“Indeed he should, and his punishment should fit the crime.”

“Off with his head!” the Queen proclaimed jubilantly.

“Or,” the King suggested, more moderately. “Banishment from his place of residence.”

“How does that punishment equal what we had to endure?” the Queen pouted.

W.R. could see the hesitation in the King’s eyes. He would do anything to please his harpy of a wife, no matter what the cost. He jumped in before the King could change his mind.

“The Hatter lives above his shop. Take away his residence and you take away his livelihood. It would destroy him.” He looked pointedly at the Hatter. The man was a cringing mess. He looked more forlorn at the prospect of losing his beloved shop than he had been of losing his head. His body shook with violent sobs. Teardrops fell in a steady stream, down his face and blackened his dusty boots. It was heart-wrenching to see. W.R. felt no pride in what he was doing. He was saving the man’s life by taking away everything that made his life worthwhile.

Though it was painful for W.R., it did seem to cheer the Queen a little. The thought of his misery was some compensation for not getting the execution she was hankering after.

“Rabbit,” she bellowed. “Take my guards and this…thing and burn his place to the ground. Do not allow him to go inside for any reason. Do you understand?”

W.R. bowed low in acknowledgment. He felt the burning down of the premises to be a little drastic. He had hoped for a sentence of eviction. In time, this incident would be forgotten as new and less trivial things took the King and Queen’s attention, and the Hatter would be free to move back into the building and continue his life as if nothing had happened. Such was the usual way in Wonderland. It was a measure of the Queens acute disappointment in the trial’s outcome that she chose such a draconian punishment for the wretched man.

Three

It was a sad and pathetic group that left the palace for the short walk into town. W.R. and the Hatter, accompanied by four of the King’s guard, walked in silence all the way to his store front. W.R. could think of nothing suitable to say to ease the man’s suffering.

The Hatter stared with longing at the red-bricked building that housed both his store and his small apartment above. Through the bulls-eye glass window, displayed at various heights on elaborate wood and metal hat-stands, could be glimpsed the end product of the Hatter’s handiwork. Hats of all shapes and sizes bedazzled in their complexity. There were almost as many hats throughout his store as there were heads in Wonderland to wear them. The man was a workaholic, thought W.R. with a touch of admiration. There was also a touch of insanity to his devotion to the craft. Who produced more of anything than the market could possibly bear?

“Can I collect a few things first?”

The abject misery in the Hatter’s voice made W.R. hesitate, but the presence of the four royal guardsmen reminded him of how foolhardy it would be to show any sign of sympathy. They had been threatened by the Queen in a way that left no room for doubt as to what would happen to them all if even one of them showed the slightest hesitation in carrying out her orders to the letter.

“You know I would let you if I could old chap,” W.R. replied wistfully. He made to touch the Hatter’s leg again for comfort, but held back at the familiarity. Turning to the guards, he gave the order to torch the place.

They stood in silence as the flames licked hungrily at the combustible fabrics. Wooden beams began to smolder, glow, then ignite in terrifying splendor, fanning the flames into an inferno. Smoke belched out through the broken window and open door, making them cough and forcing them back a couple of steps.

“My hats. My beautiful hats.” Wailed the Hatter, and then, before W.R. could restrain him, he dove forward and disappeared into his shop.

“Somebody, get him out of there,” snapped W.R., whirling around to face the startled guards. Four frightened faces stared back at him, rooted to the spot. He found it hard to blame them. If his body was made of card stock, he would hesitate too. He went to take a step forward and found his body refused to move. Some primitive instinct held him back, incapacitating him. He could think of a dozen different methods of defeating the flames, and the equipment needed to do it, but he could not summon one useful thought relating to how to steel his reluctant body into following the Hatter into danger. It just wasn’t in his nature. He hated himself for it.

The sound of a burning ceiling timber crashing to the floor, and the sudden onrush of a million embers like tiny stars pouring out through the destroyed window, brought a gasp from the growing crowd. Everyone knew that it spelled the end for the Hatter. Every head bowed in silent acknowledgement of the Hatter’s fate—all but one.

A small flash of brown detached itself from the crowd and bolted into the shop. There was a moment of intense anxiety from the awaiting spectators while nothing but smoke and flame stirred within the shop. Then, through the blinding smoke, two figures appeared. One was so much shorter than the other yet, incredibly, managed to support the other on his tiny frame. It was the March Hare; the only creature in Wonderland crazy enough to hurl himself into an inferno in pursuit of the second craziest.

W.R. hurried over to the pair, beside himself with worry. “I hope your trip was worth it,” he scolded. It was not what he had meant to say or how he had meant to say it. Anxiety tended to bring out the worst in him.

“I got a hat.” The Hatter gave a lopsided grin.

“Well worth the effort, my friend,” the March Hare applauded with genuine enthusiasm. “Shall we go back for a second? I am in need of something casual. Do you stock trilbies?”

The Hatter nodded but his heart was no longer in the endeavor. He had made his token protest and barely survived. He could thrive on madness only as long as it did not endanger his wellbeing. This little episode had taken him well beyond his limits.

The March Hare caught his lack of enthusiasm and appeared disappointed.

“Perhaps another time,” said the March Hare, masking his disappointment behind an enthusiastic smile. “What hat did you get? Let me see.”

The Hatter proudly produced a smoke-blackened top hat, the price tag of half a guinea still attached. The March Hare took it from his shaking hands and, standing on tip-toe while the Hatter obligingly bent at the knee, placed it upon his head.

“Perfect. Now, isn’t today your birthday? Let us go back to my place to celebrate.”

“Last week,” the Hatter mumbled.

The March Hare appeared shocked. “It was? Then I have been amiss in not throwing you an un-birthday party. You must think me a terrible friend. Never mind, we shall remedy that oversight immediately. Come, come. We shall go home and celebrate.” He cast a disdainful glance at W.R. “You are invited, Rabbit. You can light the candles on the cake. You seem to be very handy with pyrotechnics.” He twirled around and, with welcoming arms, called out so all could hear, “so is everyone else. Come celebrate my friend’s momentous day. On this day, he was not born. How often does one get to say that, eh?”

The March Hare led a rapidly growing crowd down the high street and into the nearby woods. W.R. trailed behind, following more out of guilt for the Hatter’s plight than out of any desire to attend the Hare’s absurd celebration party. The royal guard declined the invitation. There was something about the Hare’s insanity that was just too unsettling for them and, besides, they would have to answer to the Queen if they were tardy.

W.R. felt the sickening confines of the forest pressing in on him. He had never liked the claustrophobic feel of wooded places. He felt happier in open fields or along the windswept clifftops with their long lines of sight. Who knew what danger lurked behind every tree or darkened bush? While he grew gloomier with each step, the Hatter seemed to brighten. By the time they got to the March Hare’s house, the Hatter was positively joyous; more like his old self.

The house itself was a physical manifestation of the Hare’s corrupt personality. The two chimneys, one at each end of the house, were twisted and shaped like hare’s ears. The roof was thatched with fur. The effect was both arresting and disturbing. A large table that could hold at least thirty people, had been set up a short distance from the house, under a large tree.

Everyone took a seat around the table while the March Hare hustled around organizing his small staff. Within moments, plates of food, jugs of wine and pots of tea were paraded down the brick path from the house to the table and everyone was eating and drinking in joyful celebration. The Mad Hatter took pride of place at the head of the table. His friend, the March Hare, was to his right. On his left, almost unnoticed, sat a tiny dormouse who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time asleep. At some point during the revelry he awoke long enough to crawl inside an empty teapot and settle down there. W.R. found it all too surreal. He sat at the opposite end of the table, as far from the madness as physically possible. While the others told riddles he would surreptitiously glance at his pocket watch, wondering when would be an appropriate time to leave. The Hatter was having a marvelous time. It seemed he had forgotten the traumatic events that had led to this strange celebration and was once more his old, unhinged, happy self.

Only at one point in the proceedings did the heartbreak of the trial intrude to break the Hatter’s happiness. It was then that he took out his pocket watch and declared, in a somber tone, “My life stopped today at six o clock. I murdered Time. Now Time has ceased to exist for me.”

The March Hare was not about to let his friend destroy the good mood he had worked so hard to create. “Excellent news, my friend. Time never had much meaning for either one of us and now it is non-existent. Why not help me murder this birthday cake? Rabbit! Are you still awake Rabbit? Why don’t you light the candles? That does seem to be your forte.”

W.R. bristled at the insult. He looked around at the empty places at the table. Guests had been slowly disappearing throughout the evening and now, with twilight broadening the shadows, there were only half a dozen left. He felt he had stayed long enough. Penance for his part in the trial had been paid, though he knew he would feel the guilt of it forever.

“I shall bid you goodnight, gentlefolk. Time is pressing and I have much to do. Official business and such, you understand.”

“Time has stopped for me,” the Hatter lamented once more.

“Yes, yes. But not for me, unfortunately. I must go.”

“And so must I,” said the Hatter. “But where do I go? I have no house. No business. Nothing.”

“You can’t go,” the Hare protested. “You haven’t cut your un-birthday cake yet.”

“But after that? After my un-birthday party finishes, what then?”

“My dear fellow, I do believe tomorrow is your un-birthday too.”

“Two un-birthdays?” queried the Dormouse, and then fell promptly back to sleep.

“Indeed. Maybe more. How many birthdays do you have a year?”

“One I believe,” said the Hatter after some thought.

“Which means you have three hundred and sixty-four un-birthdays. More in a leap year.”

“Every day?” The Hatter seemed on the verge of feeling delighted but was obviously deeply confused.

“Every day,” the March Hare confirmed. “And I shall host it here. Don’t trudge all the way back to town when you need to be here first thing in the morning to start your un-birthday celebrations. Stay overnight. It will be fun.” He treated W.R. to a withering stare. “You remember fun, don’t you Rabbit. Perhaps not. Go play with your test tubes and batteries. We have some celebrating to do.”

W.R. bit back a retort. There was no point in bogging himself down in a futile game of words with the March Hare. It would only belittle him and entertain the Hare. He did not feel like indulging the March Hare at his own expense. Let him find his own entertainment. He turned his back on them and trudged through the dark forest, too embittered at the Hare’s stinging words to feel any fear.

“Un-birthdays indeed!” he muttered to himself. “Whoever heard of such a thing? It’s all peaches and cream now, but how long can that maniac keep it up? It will all be over within a week, and then the Hatter will have to find a place to live. Mark my words; one week.”

The End