Mad

“Tarrant,” my father called for me as the guards yanked at his arms. He had straggly, curly hair that fell over his eyes in brown knots. My deceased mother’s hairpin was wrapped in twine and hung around his neck. I could see that his trapped hands wanted to break free and reach for the good luck charm, as he always did when he was wholly unsure of what to do. “Keep your mind, son! They will try and take it from you!” These were his last words of advice, of which he had many. They were the most difficult to abide by. 

I kicked my boot into the ruptured mud beneath, distracted by the crack that had surely broken my mother’s back. His curdling screams sunk into the amygdala of my developing brain, wondering why I was so hyper-fixated at a time such as this. I would miss my father and I knew he would not make it without his head. The Queen liked his head ever so much. 

I awoke from my fascination with a gasp, my eyes shooting up to the cart rattling my father away. My feet went hysteric, moving me as fast as they could in his direction. I grunted and exhausted all my air in hopes that I would catch up to him. “Papa!” I shouted, watching as he used whatever force he had to elbow one of the guards. He crawled over to the bars that separated us, gripping onto them with lily-white knuckles and pushing his tear-stained cheeks against them. “Papa, I cannot do this without you!”

A rock was sticking too high out of the ground and it caught the toe of my boot, causing a rough fall and tumble into the dry dirt. I must have hit my head also, as I drifted away into oblivion while my father shared what might have been his real last piece of advice. I never would know. That was the tizzy that first made room for my madness. It took me two days to remember who I was. Perhaps it was for the best because it also made me forget the pain. 

As the years passed, I found myself involved in a multitude of careers. At first, I was an actor. A young boy with bright red hair would surely charm the women in the audience, I was told. They had an act just for me, where I would go on stage and tell innuendos riddles. Of course, I only knew the meaning of a few at that point. Something about the nonsense of these rhymes and comedic bits stuck with my speech. One day, the benefactor of the traveling show came by my tent. She was a slim woman with the lightest blond curls I had ever seen. She kissed me once; on the cheek, but I was sure she had thought of moving over to my lips. 

“It has veen grand having you along, Tarrant,” she lied, as I was self-aware as a monocle. Many twisted things were happening behind the scenes and rarely had I turned a blind eye. “I am afraid ve have to part vays now, goodvye.”

I looked down, ignoring the heat that had risen to my cheek where she had left her kiss. It burned with a desire I could not quite understand. “I will find muchier much to do, madame,” I assured her. “Though, I will never find another like you. She will always be too tall or too small.”

Then I was a salesman of worldly-type teas. I had imports from China, the Americas, and India alike. Where I got them, I hadn’t a clue. They were delicious, delectable, and full of liquor. I was told that was the Irish way. Women in England had never been so publicly drunk before. Nor had it been so socially acceptable. Of course, they were not aware of why the tea had side effects and their husbands were none too bright. It was a good old time for myself, Mr. Tarrant Hatter, with lovely women falling and fawning over me. I had grown used to the smell of peach perfume and walking back to my tree hut with lips stained all over my face.

It had gotten dark in my neck of the woods where no one else seemed to stay. I slept very well and almost the whole day away on the one I will discuss. With my trunk of tea in my lace, gloved-fist I journeyed down the path I always had. I whistled a tune, one that a metronome could not follow, and let my gaze float up to the sky. “Chesire cat!” my song halted so I could shout at the menace. His purple and pink stripes blurred in a whirl, making me wonder if he was even there at all. “I shall spindle you out of your hiding space eventually,” I warned. “What is spindle, I wonder?” 

I resumed my trip until I noticed something very strange. On the way to town, I would always pass three things. Freshly firstly, a floating teacup saucer the size of the moon. Rather than ignore its obstruction, I would hop onto its surface, waltz around it once so as not to make it feel lonely, hop off, and continue on my way. Secondly shushly, an old man who told me the invention of the top hat was a dangerous one and I had, “Better quit wearin’ it, young man!”

“It was an inheritance from my father who was beheaded by the queen. He was a tall man. Or was he short?” I would tell him. Secretly, I thought he was rather envious of my beaver-fur, silk-rimmed, tippity-toppity hat. Sometimes I would clutch onto it when I saw him coming up in the distance. 

Thirdly threesie, a very nervous rabbit with a snobby accent. He said good day to me a lot, to which I would respond, “How very rude. You cannot possibly know if I have had a good day.”

I did not pass any of these this Ring Around the Rosie, though, my boots had brought me back to the tree hut. I flipped over my hat and scratched my scalp with my index finger, twisting my waist left and right. It was very odd but I swore I had gone the right direction. I let my heels lift and knees bend until I was sitting on the ground, setting down my tea suitcase and placing my hat beside it. There was no use going someplace that would not let me arrive.

I cracked open the case, delicately reaching for the porcelain kettle I carried everywhere, a teacup to pour tea in, and my lucky spoon. I was not sure why it was lucky and perhaps I had stirred all the luck away. My hand grazed over my hanging assortment of tea bags, ranging from light brown to green, and even a popping lilac color. My preference, however, was the blue, like the irises of the woman I once loved. I took the tab of the bag from its hanging place and dunked it into the boiling water. Customers were always astonished at how the water simply appeared. 

The rim met my bottom lip with a fast burn and I jerked the cup away as quickly as I had brought it, spilling all over my hat. “Bloody Queen!” I gave way to my temper, dropping everything to attend to my father’s most loved possession. I picked it up on either side, investigating the damage. “As I suspected, this is very ungood.” 

That is when I found my true calling. Interestingly enough … Hatter was a … hatter! I spent weeks without sleep since London had decided to shut me out, in my workshop piecing together the most exquisite hats. Cap, pillbox, bowler, beret, and bucket too, each of them beautiful, tied off in blue. I worked so tirelessly that my hands developed a cramp, two fingers on each sticking together. It was painful and for a while I was sad. I had nothing to do but travel in circles, carrying my teacase across my shoulder. Not a soul in sight or a Chesire menace to fight. 

I feared I was going mad.

“Hello there,” a pensive voice teased me.

I turned, brows knitting close when I saw a young lady, looking up at me like I had indeed lost my mind. 

“Are you lost too?” she asked, smoothing out her dress with her gloved palms. “I fear I forgot where I was miles ago.”

She was sweet, I could tell instantly and so I held out my hand in greeting. “My fingers are stuck together!” I shared. “Hatter, Tarrant Hatter. You are?”

“My fingers are not stuck together,” she responded. “Alice. Have you seen a white rabbit?”

I was so thrilled to see another human that I began acting wonkier than wonky. “Yes. Through the borough, over the plate, dug underground, found a tailored suit, and into London is when I saw him last.” 

She struggled to take it all in, watching curiously as I tried to separate my fingers with my other stuck fingers. Then she did something I had never seen before, simply by taking a step forward and holding mine in hers. She made a mountain out of our hands and then kissed her own thumb, giving our connection three shakes. 

“Try now,” she pulled away, revealing my again functioning sewing tools. “Curious?”

“Yes.”

“They were cold, Mr. Hatter!” she giggled. “Now, when was this last you saw of the rabbit you speak of?”

Mathematics was never my strong suit and I no longer knew the difference between days, months, or years. For all I knew, my twenty-fourth year was now my sixtieth. The girl and I walked arm in arm through the forest, discussing the whereabouts of the White Rabbit. I told her of my hatred for him and how he had terrible manners. By this, she was taken aback. I liked Alice and she made sense of my madness. She told me London could not have possibly kicked me out because it was London that kicked her in. Though I had to admit, she was easily confused. She claimed she fell through a rabbit hole for days on end. That was simply impossible.

The more she was around, the more others started to appear. A hare, sleepy and uncommitted to our tea parties, a mouse, very difficult to hear, and a tortoise who had finally responded to our first invitation. We took his RSVP as an expectation to see him in a month. I made each of them a hat, custom to their souls. Only, I could not fully relax as I sensed outside forces wanted to take her from me and I could not have that. I decided I would meet with the Queen.

The first sign of life on my adventure was a caterpillar who I could hardly see through the smoke. He pointed me in the right direction, at least I think he did. The Chesire Cat returned to the sky, trying to make me dizzy enough to lose my way. I took this challenge head-on with the help of my father sat on my hair. 

“Old friend,” I seethed. “I think you are missing a stripe.”

Alice would have laughed, I thought. The feline fester spun around its tail, checking the length of its body to make sure I was telling the unfalse. 

“Hatter, tsk-tsk-tsk,” it toyed, his plastered-on smile sending a shiver through my spine. “You are traveling down a tricky path. One that your companion has already been on. The Queen will have your head and hers too. Be careful now.” 

Winter, spring, and fall passed before I made it to the gates. It was dark and I was determined, prepared to pitch my best sale yet. With me, I drug a case full of my most special creations, glued together with an aphrodisiac that would put any guard to sleep. I faced the first two, gesturing widely, riddling as I had as a lad, and allowing them a moment alone with the fortune they had just spent. Then it hit them, just how tiring it was to work for the Queen. Six more met the same fate.

I stepped over their limp bodies and adjusted my suit lapel, readying myself for the introduction of a lifetime. The gardens are where I would find her, smelling all the flowers she had to plant because none had been given to her. I heard the stories and I sort of felt sorry for her. I jumped over the hedge and was delighted at what I saw. I never thought in my wildest conjuring-ups that she would be a drinker of tea. Fortunately for her, I had the best.

Her garden was thick with the scent of roses and I was highly allergic. The crack of croquet balls disguised my sneezes. All except one, which threw my hat flying, right onto the lap of the one I wanted to see. 

“Off with his head!” she screamed until all the chatter around her had ceased. Cardmen stomped toward me and I waited patiently, fists clasped together behind my back. 

“Hat,” I whispered. 

There was a hush over the audience as my father’s hat jostled in the Queen’s lap. She gasped when it hovered a few inches above her skirts and made its way back to my head. It settled comfortably just as one of the Cardmen pressed a blade against the back of my neck, only it would not slice. The ton applauded lightly, unsure of what else to do. 

I took delicate steps forward, ready to explain myself. “You cannot take my head, your majesty and you will not take my Alice!”

Surely, this was it. I would get all that I hoped and no one would be harmed. The Queen hated all things pure and that was what my family was. By being here, interrupting her afternoon tea, I was showing that she could not break us. I had the secret to shielding her cards. My hat was her handicap. I took in the expression on her face, which was not ugly at all. She had black hair and green tea eyes, cupid bow red lips, and an hourglass figure. It was her heart that ruined her appearance. However, the way she had her mouth parted made me feel she did not find mine ruined at all. 

“No one said you were handsome,” she admitted, getting to her feet. She was now a mere inch from me, her floral fragrance tempting me to have a fit again. “They did say you were mad and you have proven that. You fool.” 

Now I was nervous, a sweat droplet falling down the back of my neck. “B-beg pardon?”

“Sweet, Hatter. If you are here with your father’s hat, who is with Alice and those vermin rats?” she asked, sending my mind into the tizzy that would surely end it. I had walked myself into a trap that never existed until I presented it. 

The Queen wanted me to call her Rose and swore that she would spare them all if I gave myself to her. “It wouldn’t take much,” she promised. “Just afternoon tea for eternity.”

She was a bloody Queen.

Very ungood indeed. 

Have you seen Alice?