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

girl,’ said the March Hare. ‘What an ugly, ugly girl.’


3. Conversation with a Caterpillar

Thanking the Mad Hatter for his hospitality, the March Hare set off on his way once more. Although aware that the message he had been asked to deliver to Doctor Ormus was important, he could not bring himself to be spurred by any sense of urgency. He knew the Knave was doomed. It was not something he could deny either consciously or subconsciously.
The Secret Police always got their man. And when they did...
But why the Knave? What was the nature of his crime? Treason? Subversion? It had to be something serious for it to interest the Secret Police. But the Knave was a harmless fool who neither understood nor cared for politics. It just didn’t make sense.
And why had the Knave dispatched him to Doctor Ormus? Certainly the Doctor was a brilliant man, but his domain was science. What the Knave needed now was a good lawyer, not a cranky old scientist.
If the March Hare had not been so lost in thought, he might have turned his head and been treated to the sight of the Mad Hatter whispering furtively into the spout of a tea pot.
‘Number 12 calling Base. Do you copy?’
‘Base to Number 12,’ replied the tea pot’s hidden speaker. ‘We copy you all right. Where’s the arrow?’
‘The arrow has just left. It is flying in the desired direction. Nigel and out.’
‘That’s Roger, Number 12.’
‘Roger who?’
‘Roger and out.’
‘Roger Andout? Never heard of him.’
*
A half mile beyond his own cottage with its fur roof and ear-shaped chimneys, the March Hare came to the Pleasure Garden, a small part of the Royal Estate set aside for the cultivation of exotic flora. Lulled by the warmth of the sun and the soothing caress of a hundred different odours, he stopped to admire the snapdragons. He recalled how, at the height of spring, their blooms had burned day and night, dancing red and yellow to lure curious insects to an incendiary death. Now only tiny sparks flickered between their petals, delicate reminders of a dormant majesty.
A nearby signed urged, ‘Please do not feed the flowers’; it was covered in poison ivy.
Beyond the sign stood a forest of giant fungi. The March Hare dawdled amongst the redcaps and toadstools, losing himself in shaded nooks. A nearby stream laughed itself silly through the living parasols before recklessly flinging itself over a grass verge into the calm comfort of an ornamental lake.
It was no surprise to the March Hare when he spotted the Caterpillar sitting on a mushroom, smoking hash from a brass hookah. He was seven feet of articulated splendour, from the bright amber of his face to the twin swirls of camouflage that met at the tip of his tail. As if to take refuge from his own brilliance, the caterpillar kept his head covered with a beret and looked out at the world through a pair of yellow sunglasses.
‘Morning,’ said the Caterpillar, as sanguine as ever. It seemed more a statement than a greeting. ‘What gives? I haven’t seen you around here for a long time.’
‘I was just passing through,’ said the March Hare. ‘I thought I’d stop by and say hello.’
The Caterpillar nodded sagely. ‘Been a rum sort of morning,’ he declared, by way of conversation. ‘There’s an indefinable something in the air which is just plain uncool. I am talking about some really bad karma.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean well. Always have done. But little girls freak me out.
‘I used to have this recurring dream when I was younger. I’d be the size of a normal caterpillar - just your typical pre-adolescent creepy-crawly - and there’d be this little girl who wasn’t so little to me. She’d have hands as big as cricket screens and teeth like bleached mainsails, and she’d pick me up from my mushroom and swallow me whole.’
The March Hare pulled a face. ‘That’s spooky. It reminds me of a nightmare I once had where I was being boiled alive in a stew, drowning in a maelstrom of gravy and lentils.’
The Caterpillar expelled twin plumes of marijuana smoke through his nostrils. ‘There was one here a while ago.’
‘One what?’
‘One little girl. She said she was from some place called England. I guess that makes her an Eng.’
‘You must mean Alice. I think she’s lost or something.’
‘You’ve met her?’
‘Yes. At the Mad Hatter’s tea party.’
‘Did she mention anything about the Big Cheese?’
‘The Big what?’
‘The Big Cheese. I sent her to see him. He’s the only one who can help her now.’
The March Hare had no idea what the Caterpillar was on about. Probably some drug-induced fantasy. ‘I got the impression she was chasing after the White Rabbit.’
‘That would explain why she kept going on about the Great White Bunny. She was a strange one, you know. As barmy as an aardvark on acid. And she kept changing size. One minute she’d be knee high to a hemp plant, the next she was big enough to eclipse the sun.’
‘I expect she’s at that awkward age.’
‘She’s just plain crazy, if you ask me.’ The Caterpillar blew a smoke ring which rose up and settled around his antennae before dispersing in the still summer air. ‘Tell me, you ever hear of December?’
‘No. Where’s that?’
‘It’s nowhere. The little girl said it was a month.’
‘How strange.’
‘She also said there were months called January and August. Sometimes I envy the young. They’re the only ones who experience the world as it truly is, because they aren’t afraid to dream, to look beyond this pale facade we call reality.
‘But what freaks me out about that girl Alice is that she’s so obnoxious. I try to love everyone, but some people just weren’t made to be loved. Isn’t that sad?’
‘Not really,’ said the March Hare. ‘I think love’s kind of over-rated. I mean, it’s not much of a collector’s item, is it?’
‘Love,’ said the Caterpillar, ‘is the concept by which we measure our humanity. Without it, we might as well be rocks.’
And with that, the Caterpillar must have said all he had to say because he suddenly fell silent.
Standing on tiptoe, the March Hare peeked over the top of the mushroom and found him apparently fast asleep. The pale blue vapour which rolled from the Caterpillar’s hookah held a promise of release from cares and worries. As it faded into its own special oblivion, the March Hare felt as if he was watching a dream escape. It took an effort for him to turn away from the prospect of mild euphoria and temporary peace, and once he got going, he did not dare look back.
If he was unable to escape the feeling of being watched, it might have been because of the compound eyes, hidden behind dark lenses, which followed his progress through the Pleasure Garden.
Alone again, the Caterpillar whispered into the side of his hookah. ‘Number 33 calling Base. Number 33 calling Base. Are you receiving me?’
As if choking on its noxious contents, the hookah spluttered twice then whispered back. ‘Reading you loud and clear, Number 33. Go ahead, please.’
‘The arrow is still on course. Should hit the target within the next hour or so.’
‘Roger, Number 33. Thanks for your help. Over and out.’
‘Yeah,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Really far out.’
*
At the end of Bluebell Lane, where it met Hangman’s Drive, the March Hare boarded the Enigma ferry and sat on a wooden bench at the front of the boat. The Tired River stretched before him like a lazy yawn, perfectly at peace with itself and the world in general. He trailed his paw over the side, hoping that some of the river’s contentment might rub off on him.
As the ferry set off, its only other passenger turned out to be the Grey Squirrel. He sat on the deck, looking at nothing in particular, a clutch of books brooding in his lap. His red and blue anorak clashed with the March Hare’s mood.
The two animals had never gotten along. Their opposing personalities had seen to that. The Grey Squirrel took life seriously and did not easily suffer the opinions of others. An intellectual, he resented his lowly position in life, and was convinced that had he been human he would have risen to great heights. He certainly would not have spent his adult life serving as a librarian.
The March Hare, on the other hand, enjoyed his job and gave little thought to promotion. He was also - he was the first to admit - a great lover of doing silly and trivial things.
The ferry passed Cobbler’s Wharf. Stooping willow trees did their best to conceal the barbed wire that lined the river bank, but there was no hiding the machine-gun turrets and the concrete monstrosity which they guarded. Four great searchlights rested on the Bunker’s roof, electric owls waiting for night to fall.
Signs were not needed to tell people to keep away. The towers and turrets spoke a language all their own.
‘A sad sight,’ said the Grey Squirrel. He had picked up his books and shuffled towards the March Hare. ‘They must have spent millions building that place.’
The March Hare nodded. When he spoke, it was not out of politeness. He wanted the Squirrel to know that he too was aware of the Presidential Compound’s obscene significance. ‘I remember the warehouse that used to stand there and the meadow behind it. That was the Knave’s favourite picnic spot.’
‘They reckon the President hasn’t left the Bunker in over a year. I sometimes suspect he’s not even alive any more.’
‘He still makes television broadcasts.’
‘They can be faked. Who’s to say they don’t use a stand-in?’
‘For a Panda?’
‘Maybe there’s more than one Panda. Maybe they’ve cloned him.’
‘Highly unlikely. Peregrine Smith was the only man who ever knew how to create clones, and he’s dead. Thank God.’
‘I’ve heard rumours that he’s still alive and working for the government.’
‘And you believe them? I doubt that even the Panda would throw in his lot with someone as evil as Smith.’
‘You don’t seem to realise how ruthless these people are. They want to take over the world.’
‘Our Constitution forbids occupation of foreign countries.’
‘Constitution, my arse. Whoever’s running things in that Bunker doesn’t give a tinker’s cuss for the Constitution. He’s out of control! Were you aware, for instance, that the military has embarked upon a secret program to exterminate every gerbil in existence? ‘
The March Hare felt himself mentally recoil from the Squirrel’s words. They struck too close to his own thoughts for comfort.
Was the Panda really capable of waging genocide against his own kind? It somehow rang true. What kind of a person was it who could keep himself locked up underground for months on end, never seeing sunlight, never breathing fresh, unprocessed air?
And this was the very person who had signed the Knave’s arrest warrant.
The Squirrel edged closer. ‘You’re on your way to Enigma, aren’t you?’
‘I would hardly be on the Enigma ferry if I weren’t.’
‘You’re looking for the Big Cheese.’
It was the second time he had heard that name that morning. Who - or what