The Red King Read online

  The Red King: The Jabberwocky

  -Book 1-

  by Russell Proctor

  A PERMUTED PRESS book

  Published at Smashwords

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-483-7

  The Red King: The Jabberwocky Book 1

  Copyright © 2015 by Russell Proctor

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by George Cotronis

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Alice moving under skies

  Never seen by waking eyes.

  —Lewis Carroll

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  A Note on Sources

  Coming Soon

  1

  The Queen is dead.

  Long live the King.

  The Red King smiled. It was a good kill: he had spared the Queen too much suffering, just a quick thrust through her heart with the Bandersnatch knife. Best to do the deed quickly; he at least owed her that.

  Through the tower window, from out of the Forest of Forget, came the clash of metal and the thud of battle-horses’ hooves as the Knights hurried towards the castle.

  Curse them! They would know the Red Queen was dead; all the Land would tremble at her passing. The animals in the forest would know, the creatures on the river would know, as would the people in the towns scattered across the chessboard fields. But he was ahead of them all. His escape was ready.

  He left the corpse where it was, crossed the room to a thick tapestry on one wall and pulled it aside. Behind was a disused fireplace with a mirror hung above it. He gripped the edges of the Looking-Glass, long crooked fingers wrapped far around the wooden frame, and stared at his reflection for a moment, smiling. He had been asleep too long—for an age or more. This was a good day, the best day. No more sharing the throne, no more chess game. No more Queen.

  He closed his eyes and breathed in, waiting for the last few seconds of the last ten years to run out. The timing was so delicate, so fine…

  Under his fingers, the Looking-Glass’s wooden frame trembled for a moment, and was still. The air temperature plunged.

  Now!

  The King opened his eyes and looked into the mirror. His reflection blurred and faded. Colours swirled, shifted, coalesced again to form the drawing room of a comfortable house. His image was nowhere to be seen; the glass reflected neither the throne room, nor the tapestries on the walls.

  Something behind him—a bright flash of light? He turned his head, but there was no one else alive in the room. Three loud explosions like thunder filled the air around him in quick succession. Then silence.

  He tensed, suddenly afraid. Had the Knights arrived already? Were they pounding the castle with cannons? But no, that was not possible; the sounds must have been in his head. It was nerves; fear; adrenalin from the murder of his wife. He chided himself for being weak. Fear was irrational, something not felt by Kings.

  He smiled and faced the Looking-Glass again.

  It was time to pass through…Yet still he paused: was this right? Was it the way? While the Knights were in the forest surrounding the castle all was safe, for there they could not remember anything. The trees sucked away memory, drinking it through their roots, using it to confound those wandering beneath them. Even the Knights’ own names would be lost. But when they eventually emerged from beneath the brooding trees they would remember their quest. Then mercy would be the one thing left forgotten.

  He glanced back again at the body of the Queen, at her open, staring eyes: so blue, as blue as the ocean that washed the shores of the Land. He had never noticed their lustre before. But she was quite dead. Yes, escape through the Looking-Glass was the only thing to do. There was no ruling the Land now. The Knights would see the corpse and rip out his heart for what had been done to the Queen.

  But they would be too late: once the King passed through the Looking-Glass, the Knights could not follow. Let the silly creatures hunt all they liked. Now, he was free, and ready to begin again.

  He used a chair to climb onto the mantelpiece of the large fireplace over which the Looking-Glass hung, took a deep breath, and stepped through. A moment of darkness as realities collided, a moment of disorientation as his body adjusted to being in a new universe, and he was there. No problem at all—a child could do it.

  Once, long ago, a child had.

  A room in a house surrounded him now instead of the castle. Richly furnished, with dark blue wallpaper; a fireplace filled with black, cold ashes; a heavy panelled door, carved with geometric shapes. Early dawn peeked through the curtains. So this was the world on the other side of the Looking-Glass. The King climbed down from the mantelpiece.

  Sudden weakness hit him. His legs were unable to support his weight. Somehow, form and substance vanished here. He felt faint and grabbed the corner of the fireplace. An effect of the transition between worlds, perhaps. Life-force drained away.

  He looked at his hands. They were transparent. He was becoming a ghost, fading away to nothing. Panic hit him. He turned back to the Looking-Glass, but it was already too late; its power was gone in the transference. There was no return that way, not yet, not until the power built up again in ten years’ time.

  The King’s body faded, washed out, until just a shadow remained, an outline of darkness on the carpet, the wan light through the window the only illumination to give any sign of his reality. Was this how forms existed in the other world? It was not right, not the way it should be.

  Without warning, the door opened. He swung to face it, white teeth bared in a snarl, one hand reaching for the Bandersnatch knife in his belt. But his scowl turned to open-mouthed astonishment.

  It was her! Older, taller, but there was no mistake—the same long blond hair, the same pale face: the girl in his dreams, the Yellow Child, the one who had dared to become a queen. She stopped with one hand on the doorknob, the other hand holding a lighted candle, looking into the room.

  The King drew the knife from its sheath, but it, too, was merely a thing of shadow. The blade that just a few minutes ago had sliced between the ribs of the Red Queen could do this woman no harm. He groped backwards towards a small table on which a heavy vase sat, but his hand went through it, as insubstantial as a wraith’s.

  The woman stood, peering into the room, the candle held high. Then she saw his faint ghostly outline, made more definite by the candlelight. There was enough form yet left to define the face and the robes and the crown on his head. They were familiar, coming back to her memory after many years.

  Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, and she nodded.

  ‘You,’ she mouthed, and glanced at the drawn knife in his hand. But still she did not move or try to protect herself.

  He screamed, a howl of anger and frustration and defiance, but no sound reached the woman. His mist-like body could not distort the air enough to be heard. The Yellow Child just stood and glared back at his mutely howling face. He rushed towards her, and at the last moment she flinched, holding the candle up between them. As his face came close to hers, he took on a more solid form. There was a moment when he might have been corporeal enough to grab her, to ask what was happening, why he was a ghost…

  * * *

  …Alice woke, body twisted under the bedclothes, one arm held up as if to ward off a blow. The bedroom was in darkness, just a thin stream of moonlight leaking through the thick curtains. On the dressing table, a clock ticked loudly: four o’clock in the morning.

  She sat up as the last shreds of the nightmare fell away, ran a hand through her long blonde hair and sighed out a breath. Then she rose and crossed to the window. The curtains were slightly drawn. Outside, London lay in the quiet of dawn, still asleep, unaware. Alice remembered her vision.

  He was here, the Red King. But why? Why, after all these years, could the Land not remai
n just a dream? The time was right: ten years. Ten years since the Looking-Glass had last spat out something from the ragged edges of the mind…

  Alone in the darkness of the bedroom, Alice began to cry.

  2

  There were new worlds everywhere, Dorothy Gale decided. New worlds to go with a new century.

  Most strange were the worlds next door, the ones that lay only a few days’ travel away. They weren’t reached by riding a cyclone or even falling down a rabbit hole, but by boarding a ship and spending a few uneventful days at sea. She stood outside Waterloo railway station and stared about her at the swarm of London, capital of the Old World: as far from Kansas as it was possible to be, she reckoned, without actually going back again. Wonders were nothing new to her, of course, but even the Emerald City’s grandeur had a rival in this seething metropolis.

  Dorothy was used to arriving in a new land unceremoniously, dumped there with no resources; the last time had been by shipwreck with only a hen for company. But this was somehow more disconcerting, arriving with a suitcase borrowed from her cousin and a few other pieces of luggage that Aunt Em had insisted she would need. The train journey from Kansas to New York, the voyage across the Atlantic, another rail trip from Dover where the great ocean liner had docked: it had been an interesting four weeks. But it was not how she was used to travelling at all. Even though it was the way everyone else travelled—the way, indeed, one was meant to travel—it somehow felt wrong.

  ‘Miss Gale?’

  A man stood beside her. He was tall, middle-aged, dressed in pin-striped trousers and black jacket, a thin moustache across his upper lip which literally looked like it had been drawn there. She backed away from him a step or two, hugging her handbag close to her chest.

  ‘I am Cartwright,’ said the man. He attempted to smile, but in Cartwright’s case this was never more than a sucking in of his upper lip so that his moustache disappeared. He nodded self-consciously. ‘Mrs Hargreaves’s butler. I presume you are Miss Dorothy Gale?’

  Dorothy nodded. She had never met a real-life butler before: not, at least, a private one to an English person. She had seen pictures of them, and had noticed several valets and maids travelling with their employers on the ship. But a real-life butler who actually came to pick her up at the station—that was another new experience in this new world.

  For his part, Cartwright surveyed the young girl dubiously. He was not an expert on young girls, or females of any sort for that matter. The girl’s freckles and bright expression indicated nothing to his mind other than a fairly gormless naivety. The plain brown travelling dress likewise hinted at simple tastes and modest means. The thick, red hair—well, best just to ignore it completely.

  ‘It is my duty to escort you to Mrs Hargreaves’s home,’ said Cartwright, sallying forth despite his doubts. ‘She sends her apologies that she is unable to meet you in person, and that you had to find your own way from Dover.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Cartwright.’ Dorothy found her voice at last, and performed a curtsey.

  ‘Please, Miss Gale, call me Cartwright. No “mister” is needed.’

  The girl was from America; Kansas, apparently. From what he had heard of the place, they had no sense of class at all, no bearing, as his father would have said. Kansas was part of the Corn Belt, whatever that was. Full of farmers, no doubt, all decked out in overalls with pitchforks in their gnarled but honest hands. It sounded ghastly. He performed his sucked-in smile again, the moustache re-appearing afterwards like a moist caterpillar.

  ‘And I assure you that it is not necessary to curtsey to me.’

  ‘I didn’t know if I should do that,’ she said. ‘You bein’ my first butler an’ all.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re a guest. A curtsey is inappropriate.’ He turned to her suitcase. ‘Is this your luggage? Permit me to obtain the services of a boy who can assist us with that. And we’ll need a growler.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A cab big enough to take your luggage. The omnibus will be too crowded. Please wait here.’ He strode off, leaving a faint whiff of moral indignation in the air.

  A few minutes later he returned with a small but brawny lad in tow and a two-horsed Clarence cab ready to receive them. The boy helped the cabbie to load Dorothy’s luggage onto the growler and took the coin Cartwright handed him.

  They rattled along in silence for a while, Cartwright staring out of the window with all the aloofness Dorothy had heard butlers should possess. She shuffled her feet and fidgeted with her handbag. Eventually she could stand it no longer.

  ‘Have you been workin’ with Mrs Hargreaves long?’ she asked.

  There was a moment’s pause as Cartwright considered the dangers of entering into idle conversation with a guest.

  ‘Two years,’ he replied eventually. ‘Mister Hargreaves was good enough to take me in. Now, please refrain from talking. I’ve been asked to acquaint you with certain rules before you meet my employer. So be patient and listen attentively.’

  Dorothy had briefly been to school, where she had learned the basics of reading and writing, until Uncle Henry could no longer afford to send her. The teacher had acted just like Cartwright, and said the same sort of things. It had annoyed her then, too.

  The butler reached into a breast pocket and extracted a carefully folded piece of paper and a pencil. Dorothy could see lines of meticulous script. Cartwright cleared his throat.

  ‘Number one,’ he read. ‘On no account—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Dorothy politely, ‘but are these Mrs Hargreaves’s rules?’

  The child would apparently continue to ask questions, despite his enjoinment to sit still and be quiet. How odd. ‘Not all of them. Some are mine. Number one–’

  ‘Which ones are yours and which are hers?’

  ‘Number one. On no account are you to enter the cellar.’ He made a small, neat tick next to that item on the list. ‘Number two—’

  ‘Why would I want to go into the cellar?’

  They crossed the Thames on Westminster Bridge and headed for Trafalgar Square, then onto Mayfair. Some rows of houses on either side momentarily distracted Dorothy, who gazed out at the identical buildings, all attached to each other, surrounded by high steel railings. What a strange way to live. And so little grass or trees anywhere. Again she thought with a touch of nostalgia about the tiny one-roomed farmhouse she used to share with her aunt and uncle. That was odd—she had never felt sentimental about that rickety old shack before. It was far away now, of course, carried off by a tornado.

  ‘Number two…’

  But Dorothy was only half listening as she continued to look at the city passing by. There were quite a few rules Cartwright was reading out, mostly about her not going to places in Mrs Hargreaves’s house where Cartwright did not want her going, times of meals and so forth. It sounded like an enormous house. After the first dozen mundane regulations, however, there were a couple of more peculiar ones.

  ‘Number thirteen,’ said Cartwright, turning the page over. ‘On no account are you to play chess or cards, or request to do so. Do you have any chess sets or cards in your luggage?’

  ‘Don’t play either of them. Uncle Henry plays cards occasionally, but Aunt Em gets mad if she finds out. She reckons he loses too much money.’

  ‘I am not interested in your family’s distractions. I am interested in you.’

  ‘I can understand Mrs Hargreaves not likin’ cards or chess. But why can’t I play ’em if I want to?’

  Answering foolish questions was none of Cartwright’s concern, particularly questions to which he did not know the answer. Mrs Hargreaves had forbidden chess and cards, which was reason enough. He ticked number thirteen a little more firmly than the others.

  ‘Number fourteen. Mrs Hargreaves serves tea at four-fifteen each Tuesday, Thursday and Friday afternoon. You will be prompt in attendance as Darjeeling is not pleasant lukewarm. Besides, she often has ladies in attendance who don’t like waiting for guests.’