The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2016 (20 page)

In truth, such scenes can occur even if Time is only sleepy. Try it for yourself. Host a tea and block the way out. See how long it takes your trapped guests to go to grass.

The normal amusements suffice awhile: small talk, singing, making personal remarks to young girls in blue dresses. But soon enough, if your gathering includes individuals of some sophistication—gentlemen who've traveled in foreign lands, ladies who double as cockish wenches, that old scoundrel everyone suspects as being the anonymous author of the blue editorials that turn up occasionally in the post—soon enough, someone will suggest a bit of knock and dock. First the knock. Then the knockers. By the time someone's about to answer the door, you'll have to pause to fan the dormouse with a napkin. Whoever knew the drowsy rat was such a prude?

The hatter and hare have always known theirs were restive souls—Move along! One place on! New chair! New tea!—but before they began this seeking of each other's flesh, they'd never realized that the secret to dispelling their disquiet was exertion. Exorcise with exercise. Move down! One more time! Switch sides! Switch ends!

In and out, up and down, across tables and under them. Sometimes sipping lapsang souchong. Sometimes lapping marmalade.

The hatter succumbs to cackling. The hare, overcome by delectable sensations, chews mindlessly through his frock coat, the hatter's derby, two embroidered tablecloths, and a linen napkin.

Parts previously known only by their anatomical designations earn salty soubriquets. The hatter's whore pipe blows the grounsils into the round mouth. The hare's snip of a plug tail prigs and waps and tups away. Arbor vitae in blind cupid, gaying instrument in the nancy, bawbles on the belly, fist around the lobcock, playing the backgammon until it's a dog's ride, hatter and hare both worn to nubs.

There is a secret to making tea time last forever.

One must not necessarily murder Time—although if one is possessed of a distressing enough singing voice, this provides a good start to the endeavor. One must simply prevent the moment from ever reaching fruition.

Sit at the table. Fold your napkin. Tip your hat. Select a sandwich. Lay it on your plate. Pour milk. Decant your tea. Lift your cup. Let its brim touch your lower lip. Tip the porcelain until a hint of steam enters your mouth. Close your eyes. Inhale the scent of warmth and Indian leaves. Press your tongue against your lip. Imagine the rush of hot, dark, sweet liquid.

New tea! Change places! Start it all again!

“The time has come,” the Hatter said,

“To talk of many things:

Of white—and green—and flow'ring blends—

Of spiced tisane that stings—

And why the mad are hot to trot—

And whether love has strings.”

“But wait a bit,” the Hare replied,

“Before you make a peep;

You've had fun chewing my bun,

But now I need some sleep!”

“No hurry,” the Hatter agreed,

“I guess I went too deep.”

But love has strings, the Hatter knew,

Though they remain unsaid.

They're tatters, tears, and arguments,

And cheeks left wet and red.

Perhaps he should have stayed alone

And buttered his own bread.

Many lovers have believed their trysts provide sanctuary from Time. Their yesterdays forgotten and their tomorrows unimaginable, they picture themselves frozen in the moment of mutual embrace.

They are wrong.

Even the hatter and the hare, living in their chronological isolation, know that such things only last forever in the technical sense.

Time will eventually resurrect itself, as it always does, slicing the world back into metered moments, ordering the sun across the sky, pushing everything relentlessly onward, forward, skyward.

Outside the moment of tea time, the hatter must return to his hats, the hare leap back to his hutch. Everything will change.

The return of Time will swiftly tear away the remnants of the hatter's sanity. He thinks of this as he watches his hand, even now shaking so that his teacup rattles in its saucer. When Time is reborn, his hands will flail without volition. Raucous, inappropriate, he will bark and guffaw to keep the cards from guessing how far gone he is. His ears will register sound but not meaning, his tongue numb as he tries to form words. Another beaver pelt laid out, the nitrate of mercury applied to it, and the hatter will tatter. Eventually, mercury will kill him. It is an occupational hazard.

As for the hare, he does not know what to think of Time. Long ago—or at any rate, before they understood that, as Time was dead, he had forsaken them—the hare had pulled the pocket watch from his vest and gazed at it appraisingly. Time had never halted before in his experience, and he was inclined to blame mechanical failure. The tea table was woefully undersupplied with watch-making tools, but it was well stocked with butter, so the hare decided to substitute the latter for the former. He crammed as much butter as he could into the gears, aiming to grease them along. Alas, its only effect was to kill the watch as thoroughly as Time himself. The hare slipped the watch back into his pocket and did not look at it again. Now he wonders if he might, in fact, have made the problem worse. Is Time trapped, unable to force its way through clogged gears to wind himself up again? What is the relationship between Time and timepiece?

At any rate, in retrospect, he is glad to have buttered Time. He does not wish to retreat into the woods, where his Arlington vest will become soiled and his pocket watch will be lost the first time he must bound away from a cheshire's leap. Even the white rabbit, traveling under the queen's protection, cannot hold on to his gloves and fan.

Worse than that, the day will end, and soon the week and then the month. He will become an April hare, a May hare, a June hare. Who knows what kind of personality he will have in July? What does an August hare feel? Are September hares kind? It seems a poor risk to regain his sanity at the cost of losing himself. Madness is a comfortable garment, though not so comfortable as his Arlington vest.

The hatter is a poor man. He has no resources to squander. Still, by dint of frugality, he has managed to scrounge a few extra swatches of felt from extravagant royal orders.

At night (when there was still Time to lead to night), after the hatter completed his work, he would delve into his meager stash of candle nubs and work for the minutes he could buy with scavenged wax. Velvet for his hare, the only material worthy of his plush pelt. He treated the hat with special care. He spent evenings over perfect stitches. He pricked his fingers to bleeding, and worked his eyes to tears, but scrupulously ensured neither could stain his work. He even cut two perfectly shaped holes in the brim, one for each of the hare's silken ears.

Not even a hare, he believes, should be without a hat.

You may think that it's fair to conclude that since the hatter loves his hare, it's clear that the hare loves his hatter.

You are mistaken. It's not the same thing a bit!

You might as well say that dressing a wound is the same as wounding a dress.

You might as well say that to like whom you tup is the same as to tup whom you like.

You might as well say that the heart knows what it wants so therefore it wants what it knows.

In the garden at the outskirts of the tea party, floral prudes gaze with dismay at the sight forced upon them by their regrettably placed beds.

The Daisy blushes red. The Rose curls her lower leaves to block her view. With a gasp, the Tiger Lily wilts into a faint.

When the hatter and hare are done with this round, all exhausted, the hare curls beside his beloved. The hatter sits with a cup of Assam. Light slants between branches, the lazy golden of a summer that can't decide whether six o'clock is afternoon or evening.

The hare stares restlessly up at the leaves. He has not been biding well; boredom has begun to rumple his fur.

Oh, he fears the return of Time as much as the hatter does; he has much to lose. However, he also feels a longing for what it was like to leap and hide, to smell fresh soil, to discover lettuces in unexpected places. He recalls the terror of a predator's chase, the thrill of elusion, the joy of new moments unfolding like the scandalized flowers.

“Old Time,” mutters the hare, “his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his hands are mutes.”

The hatter sits straight in apprehension. His hand withdraws from his partner's plug tail.

He recognizes this quotation as an expression of dissatisfaction, a rebellion against their idyll. He demands his lover's meaning. “Speech is the mirror of the soul,” he says. “As a man speaks, so is he.”

The hare recognizes an edge of bitterness in the hatter's voice. He does not want to argue. He knows the hatter will never admit that while there are benefits to timelessness, there are detriments, too. He holds his tongue and savors the tumbling light.

Acidly, the hatter says, “Silence is the wit of fools.”

The hare ripostes. “Wit without discrimination is a sword in the hand of a fool.”

“Wit is cultured insolence.”

“Don't put too fine a point on your wit or it may be blunted.”

“A paltry humbug! Those who have the least wit make them best.”

“Words may show a man's wit, but actions his meaning.”

“Bah!”

The hatter's hands are quivering now as much from rage as from mercury. The conversation has slipped its rails; it has become something else entirely. And still the hare will not reveal his meaning.

In anger, the hatter discards their prohibition against original speech. “Our wits,” he sneers, “are worn too thin for witty exchanges.”

Lulled by their return to familiar assay and counter, the hare has failed to notice that the hatter is blisteringly mad, and in more than his usual sense. Lazily, he replies, “Many that are wits in jest are fools in earnest.”

The hatter whips to his feet. “Can't you hear?” he demands. “Is there a whit of use in those enormous ears? No more wit! Not a witty whit more! Our witless twittering is done!”

The Hatter parted with his heart

When tea time made him gay:

The Hare (that tart!), he stole that heart,

And took it quite away!

Oh, Hare, my dear, though you appear

Contented with our tryst:

Boredom, I fear, has made you queer,

And you've begun to list.

You might as well say that to lose what you love is the same as to love what you lose.

You might as well say that we meet then we part is the same as we part then we meet.

You might as well say that I'm undone by love is the same as my love is undone.

The tea has gone cold. Crumpets ossify on the platter. The pastries are more stone than scone.

The hatter has gone off to sulk at the far end of the tea table. He's pulled the tablecloth over his head. He makes a strange lump; the cloth, over his hat, looks as though it's covering some bizarre mushroom. The tea set is all askew, scattered by the yanking of the tablecloth. The teapot slumps on its side, spout jutting obscenely upward.

The hare lopes over to the flower bed. He nibbles restlessly on the violets until he becomes bored with their tiny screams.

He's almost drowsing when suddenly his prey senses twitch. He springs to his feet.

Whoosh! Thump. Sharpness. The hare's heart pounds as teeth close on his nape. He paws the ground, scrambling to get away, but it's got him fast.

“Murr hurr, ii aa oo?” comes a full-mouthed inquiry.

The hare sprawls on the ground, spat free.

Above him, the queen's pet cheshire stares down. “Sorry, March,” he says casually, licking a paw. “Didn't recognize you.”

The hare's heart beats the rapid tattoo of near escape. He stutters. “Wo-would you like some tea?”

“Kind of you to offer, but no,” Cheshire says. “No time for tea.” His grin beams. “Get it? No Time?”

The hare thinks it best to ignore Cheshire's attempt at humor; after all, the animal's teeth remain on gleaming display.

“What would you like, then?” asks the hare.

“Diversion,” says Cheshire. “A chat. A nibble.”

Fangs glisten. The hare trembles.

Cheshire curls his tail around his paws. “Have I ever told you what it's like to walk away from here?” Without waiting for a reply, he continues, “To leave here and go back into Time is like watching the sun rise and sink a thousand times in the blink of an eye.”

Diffidently, Cheshire turns toward the tea table, surveying the scene with the aura of ownership that cats can cultivate when they wish. His ear twitches back toward the hare, signaling that he is still ready to leap.

“Except nothing like that, of course. The sun wouldn't stir herself on account of what beasties are up to. But
inside.
It's like that
inside.
”

The cat turns back. He licks his chops.

“Not a bad arrangement. Staying here. Drinking tea. Never getting older. Some might envy you.” The feline leers. “But then, some envy the dead.”

The hare shrinks. “The dead?” he asks, wondering if it's a threat.

But Cheshire does not advance, all claws and teeth. Instead he fades away, leaving his grin behind.

A raven is like a writing desk because the notes for which they are noted are not musical notes.

A raven is like a writing desk because Poe wrote on both.

A raven is like a writing desk because they both slope with a flap.

A raven is like a writing desk because there is a “B” in both and an “N” in neither.