Down the rabbithole
Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank of the river, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice ‘without pictures or conversations?’
Mostly she would love to read something naughty… something with kissing and maidens blushing and men making suggestions they shouldn’t… but her mother would never allow her to read such debouchery… She had borrowed some from her maid, and reading them made her body all tinglish.
The sun drenched the meadow in a syrupy light, making the white of her pinafore dress almost blinding. Beneath it, her corset cinched tight, a familiar, comforting pressure that kept her posture perfectly erect, as a proper young lady’s should. She was eighteen, and the world was a neatly drawn map with clear boundaries. Her mother had explained the boundaries many times. Her body was one such territory, guarded and untouched, a pristine landscape awaiting a husband’s gentle, respectful claim.
So she was considering in her own mind… as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid… 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.
There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!’ when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural; but when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge.
In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.
The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well… or she thought it had to be a well.
She fell, and fell, and fell. The world became a blur of color and sensation. Her skirts billowed up around her head, exposing the thin cotton of her drawers to the strange, warm air that rushed past her. The descent wasn’t frightening; it was strangely exhilarating. A current of air seemed to press against the delicate skin of her inner thighs, a pressure she’d never felt before, intimate and tingling. Her breath hitched. A strange warmth bloomed in her lower belly, a confusing heat that had nothing to do with the stuffy summer day. She closed her eyes, the feeling intensifying.
Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled ‘ORANGE MARMALADE’, but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it.
Her fall seemed to last forever, and in that forever, the strange warmth between her legs grew into an insistent thrumming. It was a rhythm that matched the pounding of her own heart. Her innocence was a thin veil, and this strange, new sensation was a rough hand threatening to tear it away. She felt a flush creep up her neck, hot and shameful. Her mother’s words echoed in her head, stern and clear: ‘A lady does not feel, Alice. A lady endures. A lady is pure.’ But this feeling... it wasn’t pure. It was base and animal, a hungry ache she had no name for. She squeezed her legs together, trying to will it away, but the friction only made it worse.
Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! ‘I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time?’ she said aloud. ‘I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think…’ for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a very good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over, ‘…yes, that’s about the right distance…but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I’ve got to?’ Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.
Presently she began again. ‘I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth! How funny it’ll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think…’ she was rather glad there was no one listening this time, as it didn’t sound at all the right word, ‘…but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma’am, is this New Zealand or Australia?’ and she tried to curtsey as she spoke… fancy curtseying as you’re falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it? ‘And what an ignorant little girl she’ll think me for asking! No, it’ll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.’
The fall ended with a soft, yielding thud. Alice landed not on hard ground, but on something plush and damp, like a bed of moss that exhaled a sweet, cloying perfume. The air here was thick and heavy, clinging to her skin like a second dress. She blinked, her vision adjusting to the dim, purple-tinged light. She was in a long hall, lined with dozens of doors, all locked. But it was the walls that held her attention. They weren’t wood or plaster, but a strange, living substance that seemed to breathe. And from the walls, all around her, things were growing.
Not flowers or vines, but pale, phallic shapes, some short and thick, others long and curved, all of them gently pulsing with a slow, hypnotic rhythm. They glistened with a clear, slick fluid that dripped slowly down their lengths, forming little puddles on the floor. The strange, sweet smell was stronger here, and Alice realized with a jolt of horrified fascination that it was coming from them. Her earlier ache returned tenfold, a deep, hollow throbbing that seemed to pull her towards the bizarre flora.
In the middle of the hall stood a glass table, just like the one in the tale she knew, but upon it, a small golden key lay nestled in a pool of the same viscous fluid. Beside it, a tiny bottle filled with a shimmering, pearlescent liquid. ‘DRINK ME,’ it said in a beautiful, flowing script that seemed to writhe on the label.
Her throat was parched. And the ache... the ache demanded to be soothed. She reached for the bottle, her fingers trembling. Her mother’s voice was a distant shriek, a ghost trying to claw its way back into her mind. ‘Poison! Don’t touch it, you foolish girl!’
But curiosity was a hotter fire than caution. The liquid smelled of honey and something else, something musky and dark and undeniably alive. She uncorked it and brought it to her lips. The taste was an explosion on her tongue, sweet and sharp and overwhelmingly potent. It burned all the way down. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a strange, tingling sensation began in her toes, rushing up her legs like an electric current. She gasped, stumbling back against the wall. Her clothes felt tight, constricting. The world seemed to be tilting, growing larger around her.
She was shrinking.
