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• Pawel Gabrysiewicz

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Andrzej Sapkowski Golden Afternoon The afternoon was promising, like one of those magnificent afternoons that exist solely to spend them on long and sweet far niente, up to getting delightedly tired with laziness. Obviously, a state so great cannot be achieved just like that, without preparation and a plan, just by lying down anywhere in a horizontal position. No, my friends. It requires some initial effort, both physical and mental. Slothfulness takes work, as they say. Not to waste any of the strictly counted moments, of which such blissful afternoons were normally made, I got to work. I wandered off towards the forest, and entered it, ignoring the wooden sign: BEWARE OF THE JABBERWOCK set on the roadside. Without rush, pernicious in such situations, I found a tree meeting the artistic requirements and climbed it. Then I made my choice of the right bough, using the theory of revolutionibus orbium coelestium. Too complicated for you? I’ll put it more simply then: I chose a bough on which the sun will be warming my fur all afternoon. The sun was shining, the bark left a faint scent, the birds and bugs were singing their endless songs on many voices. I lied on the bough, let my tail down in an artistic fashion, and I rested my chin on my paws. I was just about to fall into the blissful lethargy, just about to present to the world my endless disregard, when suddenly, high up in the sky, I noticed a dark dot. That dot was approaching fast. I lifted my head up to see. In normal circumstances I wouldn’t bother direct my attention towards some dark dots on the sky because in normal circumstances those dots normally turned out to be just birds. But in the realm I was currently inhabiting the circumstances weren’t normal. A dot flying across the sky might upon closer recognition prove to be a piano. Statistics for yet another time proved to be the mother of all sciences, however. The nearing dot was not a bird in the regular meaning of the word, but nonetheless far from being a piano. I sighed, as I would rather it was a piano. A piano, lest it falls from the sky with a stool and a Mozart sitting on it, is a temporal event that doesn’t tire your ears. Radetzky however – as it was Radetzky flying down from the sky – was an event rather loud, obstinate, and tiring. I’ll add not without malice: that was about everything Radetzky could do. - Do cats eat bats? – he shrieked, making circles above my head and my tree. – Do cats eat bats? - Get the fuck lost, Radetzky. - How rude, Chester. Haaa-haaa! Do cats eat bats?? Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats? - I see you wish to tell me something. Do so and leave. Radetzky grabbed with his claws a branch above my bough; he hung head down and folded his wings, taking a more pleasant to my eyes looks of a mouse from antipodes. - I know something! – He squealed in high pitch. - Finally. Nature is indeed incomprehensible in its kindness.

- A guest! – The bat yelled as he twitched like an acrobat. – A guest in the realm! A happy day it is! We have a guest, Chester! A real guest! - Have you seen the person on your own eyes? - No… - He replied with much less confidence, moving around his big ears and his glittering nose oddly. – I didn’t see. But Johnny Caterpillar told me about it. At first I wanted to bash him in harsh words for interrupting my siesta by spreading some unconfirmed rumours, but I decided not to. Firstly, Johnny “Blue” Caterpillar had many peculiarities, but making up lies and stories was not one of them. Secondly, guests in this realm were an event very rare, normally disgraceful, but nevertheless also somewhat regular. You won’t believe it, but once we even had Sapa Inca, completely fucked up by some leaves of pot or some other pre-Columbian crap. Now that was fun! He kept wandering all over the land, approaching everybody and talking in incomprehensible manner. He yelled, spat, and threatened us with some obsidian knife. But soon he left, left forever, like they all do. He left in a spectacular, cruel, and gory way. Queen Mab took care of him. And her minions, who liked to call themselves “The Heart Masters”. We just called them Hearts, or Les Coeurs. - I’m going. – Radetzky announced suddenly, interrupting my thought. – I’ll go tell the others. About the guest, I mean. See you, Chester. I stretched out on the bough, not honouring him with a reply. He didn’t deserve any. After all, I was a cat, and he was a flying mouse futilely trying to look like a miniature Count Dracula. * * * What is worse than an idiot in a forest? Those of you who yelled out that nothing, were wrong. There is something worse than an idiot in a forest. And that is a she-idiot in a forest. A she-idiot in a forest – attention here – can be recognised by the following: you can hear her from half-a-mile away, every three or four steps she jumps up clumsily, she’s humming to herself, talking to herself, she attempts to kick the pine cones in her path, misses every single time. And when she sees you lying on a tree bough, she goes: “Oh!”, after which she stares at you without manners. - Oh! – Said the she-idiot, looking up and staring at me shamelessly. – Hello cat! I smiled, and the idiot, already quite pale went even whiter and hid her arms behind her back, to conceal the shaking. - Good morning, Mister Cat. – she said and then bowed ungracefully. - Bonjour, ma fille – I replied, still smiling. The French talk, as you’ve probably guessed, was supposed to beat the idiot off track. I haven’t decided what to do with her yet, but I couldn’t deny myself some amusement. And a confused idiot is a highly amusing thing. - Ou est ma chatte? – She squeaked suddenly. As you can deduce, it wasn’t a conversation. It was the first sentence in her French workbook. An interesting reaction nonetheless.

I fixed my position on the bough, slowly, as not to frighten the idiot away. As I mentioned, I haven’t decided what to do with her yet. I was not afraid to cross those Les Coeurs, who proclaimed to have the only right to exterminate the guests in the realm, and got quite pissed whenever somebody finished the job for them. I, being a cat, naturally didn’t give a flying crap about any of their laws. Thus I’ve already had some conflicts with Les Coeurs, and their queen, the redheaded Mab. I didn’t fear those conflicts; in fact, I provoked them whenever I felt like it. Right now, however, I didn’t feel like it, not this time. But I still fixed my position, because in any case I’d rather finish this off with one leap. Running around the forest chasing an idiot was the last thing I’d want to be doing. - Never in my life – said the idiot with a shaky voice – have I seen a cat who can smile. Not like that. I moved my ear, as a sign that it’s nothing new to me. - I have a cat – she announced. – My cat is called Dina. What’s your name? - You are the guest here, little girl. You ought to introduce yourself first. - Excuse me. – She bowed with her head down. It was a shame, since her eyes were dark, and quite pretty for a human. – It wasn’t very polite indeed; I should have introduced myself first. My name is Alice. Alice Liddell. I’m here because I entered the rabbit hole, following a white rabbit with pink eyes wearing a vest on him. And a watch in the pocket of the vest. Inca. I thought. She speaks clearly, doesn’t spit, doesn’t have an obsidian knife. But she’s still like Inca. - We’ve been smoking pot, little lady? – I asked politely. – We swallowed some pills? Or did we sniff some amphetamine? Ma foi, kids start early these days. - I don’t understand a word. – She moved her head around. – I didn’t grasp a single word of what you said, cat. Not one single word. She spoke so oddly. And her clothes were even more odd, I just only noticed! A fancy dress, a pinafore, collar with rounded ends, short buffed gloves, stockings… Yes, god damn it, stockings! And small Mary Janes on buckles. Fin de siecle, if I didn’t witness it. Narcotics and alcohol should be excluded it seems. Unless her dress up was a costume. She might have come to the realm straight from a school play, where she played a Little Miss Muffet sitting on the sand next to the spider. Or straight from a party at which a group of actors celebrated performance success with handfuls of drugs. And that, after a moment of thought, I took to be the most likely scenario. - What have we consumed then? – I asked. – What substance allowed us to reach an entirely different level of consciousness? What liquor took us all the way to the realm of dreams? Or did we just drink warm gin and tonic with no limits?

- Me? – She blushed. – I didn’t drink anything… Well just one small little mouthful… Well, maybe two… Or three… But the bottle had a card saying “drink me” on it. It couldn’t have done me any harm. - That’s like hearing Janis Joplin. - Pardon? - Never mind. - You were going to tell me your name. - Chester. At your service. - Chester lies in Cheshire. – She announced proudly. – I learned it at school the other day. So you’re a cat from Cheshire! How will you serve me? Will you do something nice for me? - I won’t do anything unpleasant to you – I smiled showing my teeth, and finally deciding to leave the girl for Mab and Les Coeurs to deal with. – Treat that as a service, and await no other. Goodbye. - Hmmm… - she hesitated. – Okay, I’ll go in a moment… But first… May I ask what are you doing on that tree? - I'm laying in Cheshire. Goodbye. - But I… I don’t know how to get out of here. - I just mean for you to walk away, put some distance between us – I explained. – Because when it comes to leaving the realm, futile effort, Alice Liddell. You cannot leave this place. - Excuse me? - You cannot leave this realm, silly. You should have looked at the reverse of the note on the bottle. - That’s not true! – She yelled in denial. – I’ll walk here and there, and then I’ll go back home. I have to. I’m going to school and I cannot skip lessons. Besides, my mom would miss me. And Dina. Dina is my cat. Have I told you? Goodbye, cat from Cheshire. Would you mind also telling me where does this path lead to? Where will I arrive if I take it? Does anyone live there? - There? – I pointed with a slight movement of my head. – There lives Archibald Haigha, or Archie to friends. He’s crazier than a March hare. So we call him: March Hare. And there lives Bertrand Russell Hatta who is as mad as a hatter. So we call him: Hatter. Both, as you surely deduced by now, are mad. - But I don’t want to meet mad people, or lunatics. - We’re all lunatics here. I’m a lunatic, you’re a lunatic... - Me? Not true! Why do you say such a thing? - If you weren’t a lunatic - I replied, getting tired already. – You wouldn’t have been here in the first place.

- You speak with riddles… - she started, but then her eyes went wide. – Hey… What’s happening to you? Cheshire Cat! Don’t disappear! Please, don’t disappear! - Dear child. – I said softly. – I’m not disappearing, your brain slowly ceases to function, it loses even the ability to slumber deliriously. Vital functions stop. In other words… I didn’t finish the sentence. I somehow couldn’t go and tell her. To inform her, that she’s dying. - I can see you again! – She called with triumph. – You’re here again. Don’t do that any more. Don’t just disappear so suddenly. It’s scary. Makes my head spin. - I know. - I need to go now. Goodbye, Cheshire Cat. - Goodbye, Alice Liddell. I’ll go ahead and tell you. I didn’t slack off much more that day. Woken up from my state, and pulled out of the lethargy I wasn’t able to regain the mood. Where is this world heading to. Sleeping and resting cats get no peace and no respect. Where are the times when prophet Muhammad, wanting to get up and go to the mosque and not wanting to wake up the cat that fell asleep inside his sleeve had cut the sleeve off with a knife? None of you, I could bet any money on it, would do such a good deed. Thus I assume, none of you will ever become a prophet, even if you were to run from Mecca to Medina and back again all year long. Well, as Muhammad to his cat, so the cat to his Muhammad. I haven’t taken more than an hour to make my mind up. Then – bemused by my own actions – I got off the tree and without haste I made my way down the path through the woods, towards the house of Archibald Haigha, known as the March Hare. I could of course appear at his house in a matter of seconds if I wanted, but I found that to be a needless effort, possibly suggesting that I might care even the slightest bit about anything. Maybe I did care, just a little bit, but I wasn’t going to show it. The red roof tiles of March Hare’s house quickly blended into the brown and yellow colour of the autumn leaves of the trees around. And my ears caught an atmospheric music. Someone – or something – quietly sang and played “Greensleeves”. A melody perfectly fitting the time and place. Alas, my love, you do me wrong To cast me off discourteously And I have loved you oh so long Delighting in your company... In the yard before the house a table had been set, with a fresh clean tablecloth. On the table plates, cups, a teapot, and a bottle of whiskey Chivas Regal were settled. Behind the table sat the host, the March Hare, and his guests. The Hatter; being here nearly all the time, and Pierre Dormousse; being here, or anywhere else, very rarely. At the end of the table sat the dark-eyed Alicia Liddell, with a childlike impertinence rested in a wicker chair and holding her cup with both hands. She seemed ignorant of the fact that at a five o’clock whisky and tea she is

accompanied by a hare with badly kept whiskers, a midget in a ridiculous cylinder hat, stiff collar and a bow tie in dots, and a chubby spermophilus, sleeping, with its head on the table. Archie, the March Hare, noticed me first. - Look who is approaching! – And the sound of his voice gave away clearly that Alice was the only person drinking tea around here. – Who comes here? Do I see what I think I see? Would it be, as prophet Jeremiah said, the most virtuous of animals, walking with grace and might? - Somebody must have somewhere silently opened the seventh seal. – The Hatter added, taking a sip out of his cup of something that surely wasn’t tea. – Look though, it is a pale cat, and Hades follows it. - Thus I say – I replied without emphasis, as I came closer – You are like cimbaloms that play. - Sit down Chester. – The March Hare said. – And pour some for yourself, as you see, we have a guest. The guest was just entertaining us with her stories, of how she got into our land. I bet you’d like to listen too. Let me introduce you to... - We know each other already. - Of course we do. – Alice said, smiling nicely. – I know him. He’s the one who showed me the way to your lovely house. It’s the cat of Cheshire. - What bullshit have you told the kid, Chester? – Archie twitched his whiskers. – You’ve been showing off with your eloquence to prove your superiority over all other beings again? Huh? Cat? - I have a cat. – Alice announced out of the blue. – Her name is Dina. - You mentioned. - And that cat – Alice impolitely pointed at me with her finger – he sometimes disappears. And in such a way that you can only see the smile hanging in the air. Brrr, horrible! - Didn’t I tell you? – Archie lifted his head and his pointy ears up, on which you could still find bits of wheat and grass. – He was showing off! As usual! - Do not judge – Pierre Dormousse replied, quite consciously, although with his head still on the table. – so that you aren’t judged. - Shut up Dormousse. – The March Hare waved with his hand. – Sleep and don’t interrupt. – And you continue please, child. – The Hatter urged Alice. – We’d be glad to hear more of your story, and the time is running. - Running it is. – I added, looking him in the eyes. Archie snorted dismissively. - It’s Wednesday. – He said. – Mab and Les Coeurs are playing their stupid croquet. I bet they still don’t know about our guest.

- You underestimate Radetzky. - We have time, I say! We will use it accordingly. This sort of fun doesn’t come around every other day. - May I ask what do you find funny in this? - You’ll see. So, dear Alice, go on. We’re all ears. Alice Liddell looked on all of us with a perplexed gaze of her dark eyes, as if waiting for us to actually turn into ears. - Where was I? – She pondered, not having witnessed any miraculous metamorphosis. – Aha, I know. On the cookies. Those that had “eat me” written on them nicely with blackberries on a yellow cream. Ah, how good were those cookies! A truly magical taste! And they were magical, in fact. As I ate a bit, I began growing in size. I got scared, you know... Then I bit into another cookie, also as delicious, and then I began to get smaller. Such magic it was, ha! I could be big or small. I could get bigger, and shrink smaller, at will. You understand? - We do understand. – The Hatter replied and clapped his hands together to rub them. – Well Archie, your turn, go ahead. - The case is clear. – The March Hare announced proudly. – Delirious stare has an erotic subtext. Eating cookies is a sign of typical child sexual oral fantasies, having their source in the still dormant sexual side. Licking and munching, without thought, is a typically prepubescent behaviour, although I will say, I do know some who haven’t lost this trait even in their old age. As to stretching and shrinking caused supposedly by eating cookies, I don’t think I’ll be that insightful to remind you of the myth of Procrustes and Procrustean Bed. It’s about the subconscious need to fit in, to take a part in the secret initiation, to enter the adult world. It also has a sexual meaning. The girl desires... - So that’s what your stupid game is about – I stated, not asked. – On a psychoanalysis that is supposed to determine why she got here. The problem is that for you, Archie, everything has a sexual undertone. That’s actually common for hares, rabbits, weasels, coypus and other rodents that have only one thing in their heads. I repeat my question then: what’s funny in this? - As in any game – The Hatter retorted. – The funny thing is killing the boredom. - And the fact that someone might not be entertained by it does not imply that the creature in question is a higher being. – Archie snarled. – Don’t smile, Chester. You’ll not impress anyone here with that smile of yours. When will you understand, that no matter how much of a smartass you play to be nobody here will worship you like a god? We’re not in Bubastis, but in the land... - Land of magic? – Alice butted in, her gaze shifting from one of us to another. - Wonders – The Hatter corrected. – The land of magic is Faërie. This is Wonderland, the land of wonders.

- Semantics – Dormousse grunted, his head on the tablecloth. Nobody paid any attention to him. - Please continue, Alice. – The Hatter rushed the girl. – What was after the cookies? - I – The girl started while playing with the ear of her cup. – Really wanted to find that rabbit, the one in a vest with that watch in his pocket. I thought that maybe if I find him I can find the hole through which I got there... And I’d be able to get back home through it. We all remained silent. That fragment didn’t need any explanation. Each of us knew what was and what symbolises a black hole, and a never-ending fall. Each of us knew that there was nobody in whole of Wonderland who could even from afar seem like a white rabbit in a vest with a pocket watch. - I was walking... – Alice started quietly again. – across a meadow full of flowers, and then I slipped and fell over, because the grass was wet from dew. Then I don’t know how but I fell into a sea. So I thought, because the water was salty. But that wasn’t a sea, you know? It was a puddle of tears. Because I cried before, a lot... Because I was scared I would never find that rabbit, or that hole again. A mouse explained all that to me, because she was swimming in that puddle, because she fell into it too, same as me. We pulled each other out of that puddle. I mean I pulled her out a bit and she pulled me out a bit. She was all wet, poor thing, and her tail was long... She fell silent, and Archie looked at me with a dominant glare. - Despite what some cats think of it. – He announced, revealing his two yellow teeth. – a mice’s tail is a phallic symbol. That is to explain, the sudden fear cause in most females by the image of a mouse. - You’re all mad. – Alice stated convinced. Nobody paid her any attention. - And the salty sea – I derided. – made of a girl’s tears, is obviously the immense jealousy over a penis? Right, Archie? - Damn straight! Freud and Bettelheim wrote about it. Bettelheim is the most prominent example to be called for here, since he worked on child’s psyche. - We will not – The Hatter said repulsed, while pouring more whisky into his cup. – call for Bettelheim. May Freud also requiescat in peace. This bottle is just enough for the four of us, comme il faut, we don’t need anyone else here. Go on, Alice. - Then... – Alicia Liddell took up again, trying to remember. – Then I accidentally met a butler. But I noticed it wasn’t a butler when I took a closer look, it was a big toad dressed up as a butler. - Aha! – The March Hare exclaimed in triumph. – And here’s a toad. A moist and slick amphibian, that when excited will puff itself out, increase its size! What do you think that symbolises? A penis, obviously! - Of course – I tiled my head. – What else could it symbolise. You find everything connected to penises and an arse, Archie.

- You’re all mad. – Alice repeated. – And rude. - We are indeed. – Dormousse replied, lifting his head up from the table and looking at her with his sleepy eyes. – Everybody knows that. Anyway, she’s still here? They still didn’t come for her? The Hatter, visibly preoccupied, looked at the forest, from which some cracking and rustling noises came. I, being a cat, have noticed those sounds a long time ago, before they even got close. It weren’t Les Coeurs, but a bunch of mome raths, searching through the detritus for food. - Yes, yes, Archie. – I wasn’t going to calm the Hare, who could also hear the noises and allowed his ears to fall free in fright. - You ought to hurry with this psychoanalysis, or Mab will finish it for you. - Then perhaps you will finish? – twitch. – You, as a higher being, the human psyche. You surely know Christ Church, instead of leaving ended up in our land?

The are how the

March Hare made his whiskers familiar with all the processes of a dying daughter of the dean of world in peace never to wake up,

- Christ Church? – I held back the tone of surprise in my voice. – Oxford? Which year? - Eighteen sixty two – Archie growled. – The night between the seventh and eight of July. Does it matter? - It doesn’t. Go on with the summary of your analysis. Because you already have a summary prepared, don’t you? - Of course I do. - I can’t wait to hear it. The Hatter poured more. Archie gulped it, once again looked at me in triumph, he cleared his throat. - What we have here – He started highly and with confidence. – is a typical conflict of id, ego, and superego. As you all know, my friends, in human psyche id is that which is subconscious, impulsive, dangerous and hard to comprehend, what leads to unstoppable tendency to fulfil your needs and pleasures. Such mindless following of impulses is what the person, as we saw in this case, tries to explain and justify with imaginary instructions such as “drink me” or “eat me”, which of course is meant to mislead them to believe that id had been put under control of the rational ego. Ego of the person, after all, is the taught Victorian rules of reality, the need to be subject to rules and limitations. That reality is the strict upbringing, strict, although seemingly colourful, reality of “Young Misses Magazine”, the only thing this child ever read... - That's a lie! - Yelled Alice Liddell – I also read Robinson Crusoe! And Sir Walter Scott! - Above all which – The Hare didn't care about her yell – tries to take control the immature and yet incomplete superego of the aforementioned girl, sit licentia verbo, a conscious being. And superego, even

fragmentary, puts forward the ability to fantasise. Thus it tries to turn the working processes into images and visions. Vivere cesse, imaginare necesse est, if you don't mind, dear friends, a paraphrase... - Dear friends – I said – care to bring to your attention, that this analysis, despite being theoretically correct, doesn't explain a thing, in fact it sounds more like a classic example of some university gabble. - Don't take it personally, Archie – The Hatter unexpectedly supported my cause. - But Chester is right. We still don't know how Alice got here. - Because you're morons! - The Hare waved his paws. - I'm telling you, aren't I? She's been brought here by her fantasy, fuelled with eroticism! Her fears! Some secret and sleeping dreams, woken up by some drug... He fell silent, his gaze froze on something behind my back. Now I also heard the rustle of wings. I would have noticed it earlier, wasn't it for his rambling. On the table, exactly between the bottle, and the teapot, landed Edgar. Edgar was a raven. Edgar flies a lot, and talks little. That's why in the Wonderland he's used as a messenger. As he was this time, since he was holding an envelope in his beak, it was rather large and adorned with initials M and R divided by a crown. - Damn bunch. - The Hatter whispered. - Damn bunch of show-offs. - Is that for me? - Alice asked surprised. Edgar nodded with his head, his beak, and the letter. She took the letter, but Archie pulled it out of her hands with disregard, and broke the seal. - Her Majesty Mab, the Great Queen etc. etc. - He read. - Invites you to take part in a game of cricket which will be held... He silenced and looked at us. - Today. - His whiskers moved. - So they learned about her. The fucking bat blabbered and they learned. - How wonderful! - Alice Liddell clapped her hands. - A game of cricket! With the Queen! Can I go now? It would be impolite to arrive late. The Hatter cleared his throat loudly. Archie turned the letter in his hand. Dormousse snored. Edgar kept silent, patting his feathers with his beak. - Keep her here for as long as you can. - I decided quickly and stood up. - I'll be right back. - Don't be a fool, Chester – Archie grumbled. - You can't help it, even if you did get there now, which I doubt, it's too late already. Mab knows about her, and she won't let her leave. You can't save her. There is no way. - Care for a bet? The wind of time and space kept ringing in my ears forcing my hair to stand. And the ground, where I stood, just wouldn't stop shaking. Balance

and hard reality quickly and steadily managed to overcome horror vacui, which accompanied me in the past few moments. Nausea, although unwillingly and with some resistance, also gave away, as my eyes readjusted to the euclidean geometry. I looked around. The garden I was in, was truly English, which of course means overgrown with weed and bush like hell. I could smell a swamp somewhere on the left, where I also heard a few quacks every now and then, thus I assumed there also had to be a lake around. A bit further away, a façade of a small two-storey house, all covered in ivy, glimmered with lights. This time I was pretty sure I managed it right, I mean that I landed in the right place, and the right time. But I preferred to make sure anyhow. - Is there anyone here? God damn it. - I asked impatiently. I didn't have to wait for long. Out from the dark came a reddish, and side-stripped local. He didn't look like the owner of this garden, although he tried hard. Apparently, he was not a fool either, and he had some manners and savoir vivre poured into him as a kitten, because when he saw me he greeted me politely, by sitting and curling his tail around his feet. Ha, I'd like to see one of you, humans, reacting so calmly when encountering a creature from your mythology. And demonology. - With whom, have I the pleasure? - I asked flatly and without care. - Russet Fitz-Rourke the Third, Your Grace. - This – I pointed with my ear onto what I mean – is obviously England. - Obviously. - Oxford? - Indeed. So I made it. The duck I heard, must have been swimming not in a lake, but in River Thames, or River Cherwell. And the tower I saw when landing, must have been the Carfax Tower, no doubt. The problem was, Carfax Tower looked exactly the same as during my previous visit in Oxford, and that was in 1645, shortly before the Battle of Naseby. There I tried to convince King Charles to leave all that mess behind and run away to France. - Who's the ruler of Britain as of this day? - In England, Merlin from Glastonbury. In Scotland... - I'm not asking about cats, you fool. - Pardon, Your Grace. It's Queen Victoria. Score! Although that hag had been ruling for sixty four years, 1837-1901. There was always a possibility that I've gone a few years ahead or behind. I could simply ask the red cat what day it was, but that would be simply improper, you see. He might assume I'm not all-knowing. Prestige, as they say, uber alles. - Who does this house belong to? - To Venera Whiteblack... - He started, but then he corrected himself. I mean, the human owner is Dean Henry George Liddell.

- Are there any kids? I'm asking about the Dean's, not Venera Whiteblack's. - Three daughters. - One of them named Alice? - The middle-aged one. I'd let out a sigh of relief. So did the cat. He was convinced I wasn't asking, but testing. - I thank you for your time, Sir Russet. I wish you a good hunt. - Thank you, Your Grace. He didn't wish me a good hunt back. He knew the legends. He knew, just what sort of a hunt might my appearance in his world mean. * * * I went through the levee, the walls of the house finished with a colourful flower-themed wallpaper, through molding, through furniture. I went through the smell of dust, and medicines, apples, sherry, tobacco and lavender. I went through voices, whispers, sighs and sobbing. I went through a lighted living room, in which the Dean and his wife Liddell talked to a thin slouching man with dark hair. I found the stairs. And at the third bedroom I ran into a guardian. - I mean you no harm. - I said quickly, backing away from the warning hiss, claws, fangs, and mad devotion. - No harm! Venera Whiteblack, settled on the doorstep, laid her ears flat, gave me another wave of hatred and anger, after which she took up a classic fighting stance. - Hold it, cat! - Apage! - She hissed without changing her position. - Out! No demon will pass this doorstep while I guard it! - Not even the one – I ran out of patience. - that calls you Dina? She moved hearing that. - Get out of my way, Dina, cat of Alice Liddell. - Your Grace? - She gave me a baffled look. - Here? - I wish to enter. Leave the doorstep. No, no, no, don't go away. Come inside with me. Inside the room, in accordance with the customs of that century, were as many pieces of furniture as possible. Even here the walls had that horrible flower-themed pattern. Above the small chest of drawers hang some poorly done portrait of, as it said on it, some Mrs West playing the role of Desdemona. And on the bed laid Alice Liddell, unconscious, sweaty, and pale like a ghost. She was in delirium so deep I could almost

see the red roof tiles of the Hare's house, and hear “Greensleeves” playing. - They've been on a boat sailing in River Thames, her, her sisters, and Mr Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. - Venera Whiteblack explained before I asked the question. - Alice fell into the water, caught a cold and a fever. Doctor came, prescribed her some medications, she was also being treated with what the parents had at home. A bottle of Laudanum got into her medicines by accident, and she drank it. She'd been unconscious ever since. I got consumed by thoughts. - Is that irresponsible Charles, the man with the hairstyle of a pianist, talking to Dean Liddell? When passing through the living room I could feel thoughts emanating from him. The feeling of guilt. - Yes, that's him. A friend of the family. He lectures maths at the university, but besides that he's bearable. And I wouldn't call him irresponsible. It was not his fault, back on the boat. An accident like anyone could have had. - Does he often hang out around Alice? - Indeed. She likes him, he likes her. He almost purrs when he looks at her. He makes up stories to tell her. She loves it. - Aha. - I twitched my ear. - Made up stories. Fantasies. And Laudanum. Yes, it's coming together now. Nevermind that. Let's focus on the girl. It is my wish, for her to recover. And fast. The cat narrowed her eyes and twitched her whiskers, which among us cats indicates a state of utter surprise. She came to her senses soon enough, but didn't say a thing. She knew that asking for the motives of this decision of mine would have been plain rude. She also knew I would surely not answer such a question. No cat ever answers a question like that. We always do what we want to do, and we're not used to having to explain our actions. - It is my wish – I repeated myself decisively. - that Miss Alice Liddell recovers from her state. Venera sat down, blinked, and moved her ears. - It's your right, Your Grace. - She said softly. - I... I cannot thank you enough... for the honour. I love that child. - It's not an honour. So don't thank me and get to work. - Me?! - She nearly jumped up in surprise. - You want me to heal her? But that's forbidden to normal cats! I thought, that Your Grace would... Besides, I wouldn't know how to... - One, there are no “normal cats”. Second, I can break any rule. And so I'm breaking that one. Now get to work. - But... - Venera ditched her gaze in me. Her eyes suddenly showing fear. - But... If I purr out that illness, then I will... - Yes. - I said indifferently. - You will die instead of her.

You said you loved that kid, did you not? Prove it. You thought it's enough to lie on their lap, purr, and let them pat you? Affirming the stereotype of cats being foul, and treacherous, and that they only get attached to the place, and not to the owners? Of course, saying those things to Venera Whiteblack would have been way below my dignity. And completely unnecessary. I had the power of authority working in my favour. The only authority a cat will accept. Venera meowed quietly, jumped on Alice's chest and began to push her paws into the duvet. I could hear her claws snapping against the material. After finding the right spot, the cat lied down and began to purr loudly. Despite an evident lack of experience she was doing great. I could almost feel that with every purr she was taking out of the girl what had to be taken out. I didn't interrupt her, obviously. I was guarding, so that she doesn't get interrupted by anybody else. And as it turned out, for a good reason. The door to the room opened quietly and in came the pale dark-haired man, Charles Lutwidge, or Lutwidge Charles, I forgot already. He walked in with his head down, all humble, full of guilt and sadness. He immediately saw Venera Whiteblack on Alice's chest and he immediately thought there's someone to blame. - Hey there, c-c-cat! - He stuttered. - Get off her n-n-no... now! He took two steps forward, looked at the chair I've been on. And he saw me. Or maybe not as much me as my smile, floating in the air. I have no idea how, but he saw it. And he went pale. He shook his head. Rubbed his eyes. Licked his lips. And then he tried to reach out to me with his hand. - Touch me. - I said with the sweetest voice I could muster. - Touch me one time, you filthy man, and you'll be wiping your arse with a prosthesis. - Who ar... - He stuttered again. - are yo.... you? - My mane is Legion. - I replied indifferently. - Friends call me Malignus, princeps potestatis aeris. I am one of those who wander around, searching, quaerens quem devoret. Luckily for you, the thing we're usually after are mice. But being you I wouldn't make any hurried and farfetched assumptions. - That's im-m-m... - He stuttered, this time so suddenly his eyes almost came out of the eye sockets. – Impos-s-s-s... - Possible, possible. - I assured him, still smiling with teeth white and sharp. - Stand where you are, limit your activity to a minimum, and I'll let you go unharmed. Parole d'honneur. You understood what I told you, two-legged fool? The only thing you're allowed to move are eyes and eyelids. I also allow steady inhales and exhales. - But... - I do not allow talking. Be still and silent as if your life was on the line. Because in fact, it is.

He finally got it. He stood there, sweating in silence. He was looking at me and thinking intensively. His thoughts were very messed up, yet complex. I didn't expect such thoughts from a head of a maths lecturer. Meanwhile Venera Whiteblack was doing her job, the air was almost vibrating from all her purring. Alice moved, and moaned. The cat calmed her, placing her paw on her face. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, I remembered his name, moved seeing this. - Easy – I said unexpectedly softly. - We're healing here. This is a therapy. Be patient. He locked his eyes on me for a while. - You're my own fantasy – He finally grumbled. - There's no point for me to be talking to you. - Likewise. - That... - He pointed at the bed with a move of his head. - is supposed to be therapy? Cat therapy? - You got it. - Though this be madness – he spoke out without stuttering – yet there is method in it. - That's my line as well. We waited. Finally Venera Whiteblack ceased to purr, turned onto her back, yawned, and combed her fur with her pink tongue. - I think that's it. - She started unsure. - I took it all out, the poison, the illness, the fever. She also had something in her bone marrow, I don't know what it was, but I took it out too, just to be on the safe side. - Well done, My Lady. - Your Grace? - Yes? - I am still alive. - Why, you didn't think – I revealed a smile of superiority. - that I'd just let you die? She narrowed her eyes in a silent gesture of thankfulness. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, who's been following our doing with his sight for a longer while, cleared his throat loudly. I looked at him. - Speak. - I gave him the permission in my graciousness. - Just try not to stutter, please. - I do not know, what ritual this was. - He started quietly. - But there are things, on the earth and in heaven... - Get on with it.

- Alice is still unconscious. Ha. He was right. It seemed like the operation was successful, but only for the doctors. Medicine, cura te ipsum, I thought. I hesitated before saying anything, feeling the questioning gaze of the cat and the maths lecturer. I considered many possibilities. One of these was just lifting my tail up and leaving them standing there. But I've engaged into this too much to pull back now. The bottle of whiskey that I'd bet the Hare for was one thing, but prestige... I found my intensive thinking interrupted. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson jumped up suddenly, and Venera Whiteblack stretched out rapidly and lifted her head. On the colourful flowers of the wallpaper appeared a quickly moving shadow. - Haa-Haa! - The shadow squeaked, while circling around the chandelier. Do cats eat bats? Venera lied down her ears, hissed and bowed her spine upwards. Radetzky safely hang down from the lapshade. - Chester! - He yelled from above, stretching out one of his wings. Archie wanted to tell you to hurry up! It's bad! Les Coeurs took the girl! Hurry up, Chester! I swore, very badly, but in Egyptian, so nobody understood. I looked at Alice. She was breathing calmly now, her face showing something resembling a blush. But god damn it, she was still unconscious! - She's still dreaming! - Charles Lutwidge Dodgson suddenly realised the obvious. - The worst thing is, I'm afraid that's not her dream she's in. - And so am I. - I looked into his eyes. - But this is not the time for theories. We need to bring her back before something happens that cannot be reverted, Radetzky? Where is the girl right now? - Wonderland Meadows! - The bat squawked. - On the cricket field! With Mab and Les Coeurs! - That's where I’m going. - Go then. - Venera Whiteblack uncovered her claws. - I will keep guard here. - Wait a second. - Charles Lutwidge rubbed his forehead. - I don't understand much of this... I don't know where and why you want to go to, but... I don't think you can manage without me... Only I can make up an ending to this story. And to do that... By Jove! I need to go with you! - You're kidding me! - I laughed. - You don't know what you're talking about. - But I do! This is all my own fantasy. - Not any more.

On the way back horror vacui was even worse. Because I was in a hurry. It sometimes happens, that during journeys like this haste leads one to his own demise. A small mistake in the calculations and suddenly you're in Florence, year 1348, during the Black Plague epidemic. Or in Paris, in the night of twenty third to twenty fourth August 1572. But luck was on my side, I got exactly where and when I wanted. * * * The Hatter was right, and didn't exaggerate when calling the whole hideous group a bunch of show-offs. They made everything to be impressive, and for the impression. And so was the case this time. A lawn located among acacias attempted to mimic a cricket field, with little success. For the impression half-circular goals were placed on it, in cricket jargon called arches. Les Coeurs, about ten of them, held the game tools in their hands, the little hammers called mallets, and some things supposedly imitating balls, and looking like curled hedgehogs, were rolling all over the lawn. The lead of the bunch was obviously the red-headed Mab, fitted in fancy clothes and packed with jewellery. With a loud commanding tone and powerful swings of her arm she pointed the positions which Les Coeurs were to take. Her other hand was located on Alice Liddell's shoulder. The girl was watching the queen and the preparations with interest and reddened cheeks. Of course, she had no clue that what was coming was no cricket game, but a gory and impressive execution. My appearance on the scene, as usual, caused some commotion among Les Coeurs, which Mab quickly silenced. - Oh, I'm sorry Chester. - She said coldly while twirling the ruffles on the brim of Alice's dress with her hand, armed in numerous rings. - I'm sorry but we already have a full set of players. Which is one of the reasons why you didn't receive an invitation. - It's okay. - I yawned, demonstrating my incisors, fangs, carnassials, premolars, and molars, a whole load of tooth enamel and dentine. - It's okay, Your Highness, I would have had to decline such an invitation either way. Cricket is not my game, I prefer other games. And as for the full set of players, I'm also assuming you have some in reserve? - And what is it to you, - Mab narrowed her eyes. - what we have and what we don't? - I'm afraid I must take Miss Liddell with me, I'm hoping it won't spoil your fun. - Oh. - Mab returned my demonstration by showing her teeth while trying to imitate a smile. - Heh. I see. Just tell me one thing, why does our constant bickering for hegemony must always revolve around taking away each other's toys? Do we have to act like children? Can we not, after agreeing upon a place and time, settle what we have to settle? Can you explain that to me, Chester? - Mab. - I retorted. - If you wish to discuss such things, please do inform me of such a time and place, ahead of time. Today I'm not in the mood for discussion. Besides, the players are waiting. So I'll just be taking Miss Liddell and I'm off, I don't want to be a bother.

- What the hell for – Mab always ended up sounding like an old hag whenever annoyed. - and what damn reason do you need this brat for, cat!? Why do you care? Or maybe it's not about the brat at all? Huh? Tell me, cat! - I already told you, I'm in no mood for discussion. Which also includes answering questions. Alice, come to me. - Don't you even dare to move, you snotty brat! - Mab locked her grip on Alice's shoulder, and the girl's face paled in pain. Her dark eyes seemed to show that she began to understand what this game was about. - Your Highness. - I looked around and noticed that Les Coeurs began surrounding me slowly. - Would you be so kind to remove your gentle hand off of the child's shoulder. Immediately, if you please. Would Your Highness also instruct her minions to back away a safe distance. - Really? - Mab replied while demonstrating more teeth. - And what if I'd rather not? Could you tell me what then? - I could. Then, you filthy hag, I will also act improperly. And I'll rip the guts of all your shit-worth bunch. That's where talking ended. Les Coeurs simply jumped me, not even waiting for Mab's command to sound and her hand to finish her ruling gesture. They jumped at me as a whole, as many as there were, the whole bunch. But I was ready. Fur came off their game card-decorated clothes. Fur went off them, and me, but mainly them. I flipped on my back, it made me much less mobile but I could attack with the use of all four of my legs. My efforts began to pay off, as several Les Coeurs, marked with my claws and teeth began to retreat, ignoring Mab's yells, who with very graphic and unorthodox words told them what, and out of what, were they to rip from me. - Who even cares about you! - Alice suddenly yelled, adding some new tunes to the ongoing symphony of chaos. - You're all just a bunch of stupid game cards! - Oh yeah!? - Mab roared, shaking the girl violently. – You don't say? One of the Les Coeurs, with long curly hair and a black club sign on his chest, grabbed my tail with both hands. I hate such forceful acquainting so I ripped his head off. But others were already sitting on me, making a use of their fists, heels, and cricket mallets, all while wheezing loudly. Those bastards were damn obstinate. But so was I. After a while it got a bit more loosely around me. I could switch from positional to manoeuvre warfare. The lawn was almost all red by now, and damn slippery to it. Alice kicked Mab in the ankle with all her strength. Her Majesty cursed horridly and whipped the girl's cheek with her palm. Alice fell down, landing on one of the Les Coeurs, who just tried to get up. Before he threw Alice off himself I scratched one of his eyes out. And the one who tried to stop me got both eyes scratched out. The remaining two bailed, and so I could stand up.

- So, dear Queen of Hearts? Perhaps we'll call it a day? - I Wheezed out, licking blood off my nose and whiskers. - Maybe we can finish it later, agreeing on the time and place beforehand? Mab gave me a mouthful of words, in which “side-stripped motherfucker” was the least offensive, yet the most repeated term. It appeared she wasn't willing to leave this conflict for another day. Several Les Coeurs managed to cool off after the initial shock and began preparing for another attack. I was already quite tired, and pretty sure one of my ribs was broken. I stood in between her and Alice. Mab let out a triumphant roar. The bushes of acacia wandered apart all of a sudden, like the Red Sea. And out from the green, cheered to battle by the yells of Les Coeurs, came a Bandersnatch. More accurately it was a big, well-grown specimen of a Bandersnatch. A tough and frumious Bandersnatch. - I'll make you into a nice hat, Chester! - Mab yelled out while pointing me with her finger to instruct the Bandersnatch who he is to attack first. - If there's enough fur left from you after this, I mean! I'm a cat. I have nine lives. I believe I forgot to mention, however, that I already used up eight of them. - Run, Alice! - I yelled. - Run! - But Alice Liddell didn't move an inch, petrified. I couldn't blame her. The Bandersnatch scratched the lawn with his claws, as if trying to dig up a subway station, or a tunnel under Mont Blanc. The dark-red fur stood up on his back, which made him seem about twice the previous size, even though he was sufficiently big to begin with. Muscles under his skin played the Ninth Symphony, his eyes lit up with fire. He opened his jaw in a way that flattered me greatly, and then he jumped at me. I fought valiantly, I gave it all I had. But he was bigger, and bastardly strong. By the time I managed to push him off me he'd already given me a beating. I was barely standing. Blood flew into my eyes and dried up on my sides, and the sharp end of one of the broken ribs was determined to find something in my right lung. Alice was yelling so loudly that my ears were ringing. And the Bandersnatch just swept the grass with his balls, shook what remained of his ears, and looked at me from under his mauled eyelids. His mouth opened again, but then he suddenly closed it. Instead of jumping at me again to finish me off he just stood there like an ass. I looked behind me on reflex, and I'm telling you, last time I saw something like this was in Griffith's Birth of a Nation. For there, out from the forest Calvary was charging. But that wasn't US Calvary, or the Ku-Klux-Klan. It was my acquaintance, the so-called Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. He looked like Saint George straight off Carpaccio's painting, and armed with a vorpal sword, shining in the light with brilliance. You wouldn't believe it, but the Bandersnatch ran away first with tail tucked between its legs. Les Coeurs saved themselves with retreat as well, at least those who could still walk. And the last to leave the battlefield was Mab, walking away hastily. But I saw all that like through an aquarium filled with borscht. And a moment later... Promise you won't laugh.

A moment later I saw a pink-eyed rabbit looking at his pocket watch taken out of his vest. After which I fell into a dark endless pit. I was falling for a long time. I'm a cat. I always land on all fours. Even if I can't remember any of it. - Ah. - Charles Lutwidge Dodgson said suddenly, resting his elbow on the wicker basket with sandwiches. - Do you know, cat of Cheshire, that sweet feeling of sleepiness, which comes to you after awakening in a summer morning, when the air rings with bird songs, a nice breeze comes through the open window, and you, settled on the bed with your eyes half-closed, watch the slowly moving green branches, and the surface of the water rippled with golden waves like still in a dream? Ah, trust me cat, that pleasing feeling borders deep sorrow, the amazing feeling which fills your eyes with tears like an amazing painting or a magnificent poem... You wouldn't believe it, he didn't stutter once. The picnic went on as it was. Alice Liddel and her sisters were playing noisily on the edge of River Thames, one by one going onto the boat at the shore and jumping back off. Every time either of them happened to fall into the shallow water they'd scream loudly and lift their skirts up high. At those times Charles Lutwidge Dodgson sitting next to me would pay more attention to them and blush slightly. - And I have loved you oh so long... - I hummed silently under my whiskers, figuring out that the March Hare was actually right about something. - Pardon? - “Greensleeves” Nevermind that. You know what, dear Charles? You should describe all of that. The story as it seems slowly grew and developed into where we are now. It's time for you to write it down. Especially since the beginning is already done. He was silent. His gaze did not come off the happily yelling Alice Liddell, lifting her skirt up so that her underwear was showing. - There's a half of life dividing us. - He suddenly said quietly. - And time, passing away at cruel speeds. She will never even think of me in her upcoming adulthood. - I'd suggest prose. - I couldn't hold the sarcasm. - Poetry won't sell. He looked at me and grimaced a bit. - Could you... hmm... become a bit more material? - He asked. - It's annoying to watch just your smile floating in thin air. - Today, my dear Charles, I cannot deny you anything. Too big is my debt to you. - Let's not talk about that. - He said embarrassed and looked away. Anyone in my position... I couldn't let her... and you... get killed by my own fantasy.

- And thank you for that. And while we're at it: where in the world did you manage to get that shiny vorpal sword? - Get what? - Forget it. We're getting off the subject, Charles. - A book describing it all? - He began pondering again. - I don't know. I'm not sure I would be able to... - You would. Your fantasy has a power that can break ribs. - Hmm – He moved his hand as if trying to pat me, but he changed his mind in time. - Hmm, who knows, maybe she... would like such a book? Besides, the University doesn't pay much, it would be good to get some extra money. Obviously, I'd have to publish it under a pseudonym. My job as a teacher... - You need a good nom de plume, Charles. - I yawned. - Not just because of your job, your family name is no good for a cover. It sounds as if someone dying of Pneumothorax was trying to spell his last will. - Unthinkable. - He faked offence. - Do you have any ideas? Anything that would sound better? - I do. William Blake. - You're deriding me. - Emily Brontë. This time he fell silent, and remained so for a while. The Liddell ladies found a duck mussel on the shore, the yells of joy were endless. - Are you asleep, cat of Cheshire? - Trying to. - Then sleep, you sunbathing tiger. I won't interrupt you. - I'm lying on your sleeve. What will you do when you will want to get up? He smiled. - I'll cut it off. We remained silent a longer while, watching the river and the ducks swimming in it. - Story writing... - Charles Lutwidge Dodgson said suddenly, looking like someone who awoke in a summer morning. - Writing is a dead art. Twentieth century is upon us, and that century will be the age of picture. - You mean the new game, invented by Luis Jasquess Monde Daguerre? - Yes. - He confirmed. - I mean photography. Literature is fantasy, and thus a lie. The writer lies to the reader, leading him into the depths of

his own imagination. He sways him with ambiguity. Photography never lies... - Really? - I moved the end of my tail, which among us cats signifies mockery. - Photography is not ambiguous? Even that kind of photography which depicts a girl, age 12, in a slightly uncovering pose, lying on a bed in nothing but underwear? He blushed. - Nothing to be ashamed of. - My tail moved again. - We all love beauty. I am as well fascinated by young cats, Charles Lutwidge. If I were into photography like you are I wouldn't be searching for different models either. - I never showed any of those p-p-p-... photographs to anybody. - He unexpectedly began to stutter again. - And I n-n-n-... never will. Though there was a time, I m-m-m-... must say, when I had some hopes for photography... of the financial nature. I smiled. I bet he didn't understand why. He didn't know what I was thinking. He didn't know what I knew, when falling down into the endless depths of the rabbit hole. What I saw, and knew, among other things, was that one hundred thirty four years later, July 1996, four of his pictures depicting young girls aged eleven to thirteen, all in romantic Victorian underwear, all in ambiguous, but erotically suggestive poses, will be auctioned in Sotheby's and sold for forty eight thousand five hundred pounds sterling. Not bad for four pieces of poor quality paper. But there was no reason to tell him that. I heard a sound of wings. Edgar sat on a willow nearby, and cackled calling. Unnecessarily. I knew myself that it was time. - It's time to end the picnic. - I stood up. - Goodbye Charles. He didn't show any surprise. - You can walk? Your wounds... - I'm a cat. - I almost forgot. You're a cat of Cheshire. Do you think we will ever meet again? I didn't reply. - Will we meet again? - He repeated. - Nevermore. - Edgar replied. * * * And that, my friends, would be about it. So I'll make it short. Once I got back to the Wonderland the afternoon went on undisturbed, because time goes by a bit different around here. I didn't go to the Hatter and the Hare though, to drink the bottle I won together with them. And to boast another, after the stubborn Shakespeare, success in fixing the future of world's literature. I didn't go to Mab, to try to soften the conflict with a banal chat filled with compliments. I went to the

forest, to lie on the bough, lick my wounds and warm my fur up in the sun. The sign saying “BEWARE OF THE JABBERWOCK” had been broken off and left in the bushes. Probably done by Jabberwock himself, because he tended to do such things. He liked to surprise others, and a warning sign just spoiled all the surprise. My bough was right where I left it. I got on it and let my tail down in an artistic fashion. I lied down, previously checking if Radetzky was nowhere around. The sun was warming me up. Borogoves happily wandered among the tumtums. And the mome raths outgrabe. The slithy toves were doing something on a tree nearby, but I didn't know what. It was too far away. It was a golden aftrenoon. Twas brilling and mimsy. As usual. Actually, read about it yourselves. In the original. Or in any one of the translations. There's so many of them after all.

Autor of the translation said, „I now only remembered that I had a thread here. And since I've translated this one a while ago and kept spreading it around lately to allow people a contact with a foreign author, I might as well post it here. Ever imagined reading an old and known story from a completely different perspective? This is it. Alice in the Wonderland” I put the link here below even though it no longer works. http://www.snafu-comics.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=7&t=36537#p3224387 i http://www.snafu-comics.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=7&t=36537&start=25