A Plague of Hearts, Patrick Whittaker [good books to read for 12 year olds TXT] 📗

formal notification. Failure todo so will result in your arrest and imprisonment.
POST : Royal Valet.EMPLOYER : His Majesty, the King.ADDRESS : The Royal Palace of Hearts.
Signed,
T.J. Walker (Chief Clerk)


10. Of Cabbages and Kings

It was a bad time for solitude. The March Hare knew if he went to bed his thoughts would not leave him alone. They would pummel his mind with an endless array of questions and doubts. Sleep was a distant prospect. There’d be no comfort in satin sheets and cotton pillows.
With remote precision, he folded the government form in half, using his thumbnail to smooth the creases. Then he placed the note on the mantelpiece and went for a walk.
As he left his cottage, he heard a distant cry, a shrill, primal screech like an animal giving vent to some long-suppressed anguish. Chilled by this intimation of a pain too horrible to bear, the March Hare stopped in his tracks and listened. The world was stark. It was shadows and silhouettes gilded by the moon. There was no wind, no movement - nothing to suggest that the March Hare was not the last sentient being in the world.
After long minutes, he was satisfied that the cry would not sound again. He hoped that whatever had called out had laid its ghosts to rest and found peace. And yet, as he walked on, he wondered if t had indeed been a cry of pain. Could it not have been laughter - brief but sinister? Course, manic hysteria such as a madman enjoys at the height of delirium?
He strolled on down the road until he came to the Mad Hatter’s cottage. The Mad Hatter was sitting on the lawn, his back against the oak tree, his hands in his lap. In front of him, his penny-farthing bicycle stood like a monument, perhaps to the remains of his tea-party scattered amongst the grass and flower beds. Old tea bags hung from rose bushes, strange fruit that would never blossom. The Mad Hatter let out a long, heavy sigh.
In his top hat and tails, he looked like a parody of an undertaker. ‘I can’t sleep,’ he announced as the March Hare kicked aside a fairy cake and sat down beside him. ‘On nights like this, I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again.’
The March Hare nodded his understanding. ‘I ache all over. Every fibre in my body is begging me to sleep - and yet I can’t.’
‘Do you know what day it is?’
The March Hare shook his head.
‘Scatterday, the thirteenth of Audacious.’
‘So?’
‘I’ve always wanted the thirteenth of Audacious to be my birthday, but somehow it never works out that way. Year after year, I find myself having my birthday on the same old day - the Eighth of Obelisk. It’s tedious. I wish it would change.’
‘Do you suppose,’ said the March Hare, ‘that I’m getting older?’
‘We’re all getting older, my friend. Why should you be the exception? Has Mother Nature granted you immunity?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just that I’ve never had a birthday.’
‘Never?’
‘How could I? I was never born. According to Doctor Ormus, I’m some sort of clone with genes that are part human, part hare. Everything that makes me what I am came from bottles in a laboratory.’
‘You don’t know that. Nobody’s ever been able to prove it. There are plenty of other theories knocking about.’
‘Which one do you favour? The one advocated in The Origins of the New Species?’
‘Spontaneous creation? No, that’s daft. It’s like saying you can make tea without tea leaves.’
‘So where are my parents? Why is there only one March Hare? One Grey Squirrel? One Penguin, one Badger, one Panda?’
‘There are plenty of flamingos and gerbils.’
‘But none of them have parents. They were all found with the rest of us.’
‘What a day that was,’ said the Hatter. ‘I remember seeing it on television - endless shots of baby animals, all furry and vulnerable and so cute I could’ve puked. In fact, I think I did puke.
‘And then there was that famous newspaper picture of you and the White Rabbit. You were asleep in his arms and he was looking at the camera with the goofiest grin ever.’
‘And we all wore name badges. Mine just said MARCH HARE. The hedgehogs, flamingos and gerbils were numbered from one to a hundred.’
‘That’s right. I’d forgotten about that.’ The Hatter plucked a blade of grass, rolled it between his fingers. ‘You know what I thought at the time? I thought we were being invaded from outer space by a race of sentient cuddly toys. I figured that one dark night you would all grow fangs and start shooting death rays from your eyes. And I’m actually on record as saying that you’d all turn out to have green blood and at least three hearts.’
‘And all this happened shortly after Peregrine Smith disappeared. Somehow I don’t think the two events are entirely unconnected.’
‘You think he created you?’
‘I used to be sure of it, but I’ve heard so much evidence to the contrary that I’m now confused.’
‘After he died, they searched his laboratory. There’s no doubt he was doing some weird stuff with animal cells, but there’s nothing to show he was capable of creating his own life forms.’
‘You know what I think?’ said the March Hare. ‘I think Smith faked his death. And I think he had a secret laboratory which was never found.’
‘What makes you say that?’
The March Hare wanted to tell the Mad Hatter about the events he had recently witnessed in the Velvet Underground. Ormus and the Mock Turtle had spoken of a very good facility close by. It was where they had taken Shadrack. And the Doctor had clearly stated that it had been used by Smith.
‘Let’s drop the subject,’ said the March Hare. ‘Perhaps it’s not really important how I came to be here. Life’s a mystery to everyone.’
‘Some more than others,’ said the Mad Hatter.
The March Hare unbuttoned his waist coat. A speck moved across the face of the moon. He pointed it out to the Mad Hatter who gazed up and rubbed his chin.
‘I wonder if that’s a shooting star,’ said the Hatter. It was too slow, too dark.
‘Could be a hot air balloon,’ suggested the March Hare. ‘Or an enemy airship.’
‘This far from the War Zone? It seems unlikely.’
The speck drew away from the moon. As it came closer, it slowly took on a definite and familiar shape.
‘A sea gull,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘An enormous great sea gull.’
‘It’s the Albatross,’ said the March Hare who was now able to identify the source of the cry he had heard earlier.
‘I thought we’d seen the last of him,’ said the Mad Hatter. ‘Wherever that bird goes, there’s trouble and calamity. I hope he’s just passing through.’
‘I think he’s leaving now.’
The Albatross suddenly veered to the right, gave a mighty flap of his wings and disappeared beyond a nearby hill.
Once more it screamed, but this time the March Hare was left unmoved. ‘I’m tired,’ he said, turning on his side. ‘I’m going to sleep.’
The Mad Hatter got to his feet and went indoors.
While the March Hare slept, night moved on, leaving the cosmic door open for dawn to slip quietly in and prepare a new day. That day consisted of brilliant sunshine and a soothing breeze.
He woke to the sound of birdsong and the smell of stale food.
Shading his eyes against the rising sun, he spotted the Mad Hatter sitting at the table, enjoying a cup of tea.
‘Good morning.’ said the Hatter, seeing his friend awake. ‘I trust you slept well. I slept like a kitten myself.’
The rings around his eyes called him a liar.
‘What time is it?’ asked the March Hare. He slowly got to his feet, fighting stiff muscles all the way. ‘I have to get to the palace this morning. The King’s given me my old job back.’
‘There’s time enough for that,’ replied the Hatter. ‘You really must have a cup of tea before you go anywhere. I insist upon it.’
The Hatter’s best ceramic tea pot sat on a silver platter at the head of the table. Steam rose from its spout like the softest of sighs. Without waiting for further invitation, the March Hare poured himself a cup and splashed in generous amounts of milk and sugar. The first sip grabbed his throat like a firm hand shake.
The Mad Hatter helped himself to a biscuit. ‘The summer goes on and on like a daytime soap opera. It’s hard to think in terms of Time any more. So I retreat into poetry and regard every day that passes as a stanza.’
‘Oh,’ said the March Hare.
‘Last night, when you were asleep,’ the Mad Hatter continued, ‘I composed a poem. Perhaps you’ll allow me to recite it to you?
‘It’s called Last Night, on account of that’s when it was written and that’s what it’s about.’
Placing his tea cup on the table, the Mad Hatter spread his arms and began to recite:
‘Last night someone killed my guitar;
‘They drowned it with minor chords.
‘I found it in my swimming pool,
‘With all my old records
‘Last night we laughed at rock’n’roll;
‘I told you it was dead.
‘You said you’d lost your lust for life,
‘But I found it in my bed.
‘Last night I saw Love fly away,
‘On wings of burning chrome.
‘I turned to ask you the reason why,
‘But I found myself alone.’
‘It’s a love poem,’ said the March Hare.
‘Yes. I suppose it is.’
‘What inspired you?’
‘The Albatross. There was something in the way he flew - a cold determination, I think - which suggested he would never again return. And it was as if he was taking with him a part of me which I once cherished but had forgotten about.’
‘Which part would that be?’
‘My innocence.’
The March Hare smiled at the Mad Hatter’s unwitting irony. ‘The Albatross as a symbol of innocence? You don’t know him very well.’
‘No better than I knew my innocence. I sometimes wish I could start my life all over again. There are so many things I would do differently.’
‘We all feel that way now and then.’
The Hatter sighed deeply. His eyes misted over, presenting the March Hare with a rare sight; the Mad Hatter looked deeply miserable. ‘If you only knew the burden I carry. Responsibility can be a terrible thing.’
He got up and went indoors. The March Hare had no time to consider those final, cryptic words. It was time to head for the palace.
*
The Hall of Balconies had in recent years become the King’s favourite retreat. It was the one room in the palace his wife refused to enter.
Despite its name, the hall boasted but two balconies. They were both situated at the north end, perched like eyebrows above an ornate door which led to what had once been a torture chamber. The door was locked; it had not been opened for more than three centuries, and speculation as to what lay beyond was invariably gruesome and vivid.
Whether it was out of a