They found Wondertropolis practically deserted. Small clans of Redd’s soldiers lolled outside abandoned cafes, drunk on wine and harassing the few Wonderlanders who braved the streets, hurrying to their destinations with lowered heads, intent on keeping to their own business.
Dodge and the rook cut this way and that through the city, avoiding the soldiers. They made it to the palace without incident, surprised to find it unguarded, unmanned.
“Where’s the Heart Crystal?” the rook asked.
Dodge paused to study the courtyard. How gloomy it was-forsaken and without the light of the powerful crystal. Suddenly, a figure scurried out of the palace. Dodge and the rook reached for their swords, but there was no need. The figure-a male-didn’t seem to notice them; arms laden with goblets and dishes, he ran past and was gone. Another Wonderlander trotted out of the palace and through the courtyard, carrying a music box and several pillows.
Dodge looked at the rook. What was going on?
In the palace’s darkened halls they discovered looters moving about in silent hurry, helping themselves to souvenirs of the former ruling family. A Wonderlander ran past with one of Alyss’ old toys in his arms: a set of glow-gwormmies. Dodge made a move to trip the thief, but the rook put a hand on his arm and shook his head: Dodge had to focus on what he’d come to do.
As flitting as the looters, Dodge and the rook drifted through banquet rooms and salons. They saw a
great many of Redd’s soldiers passed out on the floors and tables. But no sign of Redd or The Cat. They drew closer to the South Dining Room, stepped over dead card soldiers and guardsmen.
“That smell.” Dodge clamped a hand over his nose. “It’ll be worse inside,” the rook said.
They found the dining room deserted, the stench too much for the looters. The rook paused just inside the room, shaking his battlement-topped head at the carnage. But as ghastly as the scene was, Dodge saw only his father’s body. He stood over Sir Justice and cried silent tears.
“We should hurry,” the rook said gently.
Dodge wiped his face and nodded-more to himself than to the rook, a nod to convince himself that he had the strength to do this.
They carried Sir Justice out to the garden and, using broken chair backs as shovels, began to dig. It wasn’t easy going. They sweated; their muscles ached. But the hole was at last large enough. Once Sir
Justice was lying in the ground, Dodge removed from his pocket the medals the generals had given him and he laid them on his father’s chest. With timid, unsteady hands, he began to shovel soil into the grave.
No! It was impossible! Worse than anything he’d ever experienced, to see the soil fall on his father, the man who had given him life! A cry burst from him, he threw his makeshift shovel to the ground, ran and hid in a corner of the garden. How could he live? Why should he live when those he had held most dear did not? He became quiet, subdued. How and why should he live? These were questions to be answered. The only questions.
When he finally stepped out from his hiding place, Sir Justice was buried. The rook had taken care of everything…almost.
“Would you like to do this?” the rook asked, holding a seed out to Dodge: the Hereafter Seed.
Dodge took the seed and dropped it on his father’s grave. Instantly the seed took root and up grew a large, beautiful bouquet of flowers, the arrangement of which formed Sir Justice’s likeness; a living memorial.
“Thank you,” Dodge murmured.
The rook accepted the thanks in silence, detected no sign of tears on the boy’s cheeks. Dodge’s tight, squinting expression looked more angry than sad.
They stood together over the grave in final tribute.
“He was a good man,” the rook said, “a brave and honorable man.” Dodge snorted, bitter. “Yeah, and this was his reward.”
CHAPTER 16
A LYSS THOUGHT Quigly Gaffer the nicest in the band of homeless orphans and runaways of which he was a part, and not just because he was so attentive to her. He was attentive to everybody. He was the least sullen, the least prone to depression, the one who, with his lively, confident attitude, kept everyone’s spirits up when there weren’t enough crusts to go around, when it was cold and wet and they’d been chased out of too many sheltered doorways to count. In other words, Quigly Gaffer gave them hope when life seemed particularly hopeless. And he had suffered as much as anybody.
Walking alongside Alyss that first day in London, he said, “So, Princess, tell us about yourself,” and she voiced her woeful condition with a viciousness that surprised her.
“I saw my father, the King of Wonderland, murdered. My mother, the queen, is dead. Both of them were killed by my aunt. But it wouldn’t matter even if they were alive, because I’ll never make it home.”
“I saw my folks murdered, same as you,” said Quigly. “We were driving along in our coach when a couple of thieves decided they didn’t like the look of us and killed my father with a club to the head. I watched my mother get beaten to death with that selfsame club, all the while begging for mercy. And I would’ve been greeted with the club too if I hadn’t run into the dark and hidden while the thieves were trying to take the rings off Mother’s fingers. So I suppose you and me have something in common, what with our parents being dead, right enough.”
Alyss could think of other things she would have rather had in common with him. She didn’t know it, and this certainly wasn’t how Bibwit Harte would have taught her, but in the person of Quigly Gaffer, Alyss
was learning something that would one day serve her well as a queen.
Lesson number 1b in Bibwit’s carefully planned curriculum: For most of the universe’s inhabitants, life is not all gummy wads and tarty tarts; it is a struggle against hardship, unfairness, corruption, abuse, and adversity in all its guises, where even to survive-let alone survive with dignity-is heroic. To soldier through the days in the wake of failure is the courageous act of many. To rule benevolently, a queen should be able to enter into the feelings of those less fortunate than herself.
“Never mind that dress, I knew from your gab that you ain’t from anywhere round here,” Quigly said. “You don’t have any accent I recognize. I don’t know just what it is.”
“It’s Wonderlandian, I suppose.”
“Right, right. You’re from Wonderland, you say?” Quigly laughed. “Why don’t you tell us about the place, Princess?”
So she did, and the more she talked, the more she felt the cold, impersonal tone she’d used to describe her parents’ deaths fall away till she was almost overcome with sadness and longing for what, so quickly and suddenly, so unexpectedly, had become part of her past. She was sure the Inventors’ Parade wouldn’t seem so boring to her now, if she could only get back to the royal balcony to watch it.