Alice in Underland

Prologue – Goodbye Before Hello

“Goodbye!” said Alice, though she wasn’t quite sure why.

The White Rabbit was hopping away—tail first, which struck Alice as both rude and inconvenient. His whiskers twitched as his paws pattered backwards over the grass.

“You’re late!” he called cheerfully, producing a watch that showed yesterday’s date.

“That can’t be right,” Alice protested. “I wasn’t even here yesterday!”

“Exactly!” said the Rabbit, bobbing his ears indignantly. “You should have been, which is precisely why you weren’t.”

Before Alice could argue, a door appeared behind her. She had the strongest feeling that she had just walked through it, though she was quite certain she hadn’t. The Rabbit gave a backward bow, hopping away faster and faster until his nose was the very last part of him to disappear.

Alice frowned at the door. “Well, if I’ve already gone in,” she said to herself, “I may as well go out.”

And with that, she stepped through the door—only to find she was stepping into Underland, where everything was precisely the wrong way round.

Chapter One – The Unbirthday Feast Unmade

Alice found herself in a long, glittering hall where a feast was most decidedly finishing.

Plates were already licked clean, puddings reduced to crumbs, and teapots drained dry—yet all the guests were sitting primly as though waiting for something to begin.

At the head of the table, the Mad Hatter clapped his hands. “Now then, everyone! Kindly put everything back exactly as it wasn’t.”

At once, the strangest business began.

Slices of cake leapt neatly from mouths onto forks, which flew backward into hands, which carried them carefully to plates. Goblets tilted and spilled their wine upward into bottles. A roast chicken plumped up feather by feather, until it flew off with an indignant squawk.

Alice gasped. “Why, they’re un-eating!”

“Of course,” said the March Hare, who was solemnly removing biscuits from his teeth. “Eating before un-eating is simply bad manners.”

“And quite messy,” added the Dormouse, wide awake and scribbling in a notebook. “Food crumbs make dreadful beginnings.”

The Hatter poured an empty cup into the teapot, which at once steamed to life. “Best tea I never tasted!” he declared, smacking his lips appreciatively.

Alice, eager to be polite, picked up a spoonful of custard and tried to un-eat it. But the custard stubbornly clung to her tongue. She struggled and sputtered until the March Hare leaned over.

“You’re doing it all forwards,” he whispered. “Try remembering the taste before you swallow it.”

Alice shut her eyes and thought very hard about how delicious custard might have been. At once, the spoon pulled itself neatly from her mouth, the custard flew back into the dish, and the dish slid to the far end of the table.

“There!” cried the Hatter. “She’s un-eating like a professional.”

Alice blushed. “I don’t know that I like it very much.”

“Nonsense!” chorused the guests. “The less you like it, the better it isn’t!”

And with that confusing pronouncement, the feast came undone entirely. The table cleared itself, the cloth folded into a cupboard, and even the crumbs scuttled under the skirting boards.

Alice was left with nothing but a clean plate, a cup that had never been filled, and the curious feeling that she was hungrier than when she began.

Chapter Two – The Queen’s Un-Court

Alice wandered from the vanished feast into a vast garden of roses. Or rather—of not-roses, for every bush seemed busy unblooming.

White petals fluttered upward onto stems, which promptly closed into buds. Red paint dribbled back into buckets as card-soldiers carefully scrubbed flowers clean. It was, Alice thought, the most untidy way of making a garden look neat.

Suddenly, trumpets blared in reverse—TAH-TAH-RAH!—a sound that seemed to suck into itself instead of out. With much backward marching and heel-first prancing, the Queen of Hearts appeared.

She looked exactly as Alice remembered her—only more so, as if she had been sharpened with extra fury. Her gown swished angrily behind her, even when she stood still.

“Off with their deaths!” she cried at once.

The soldiers scurried, reviving anything in sight. A toppled rosebush righted itself. A cracked teacup sprang whole again. Even a dozing hedgehog was startled back into wakefulness, looking most offended at being so suddenly alive.

Alice, not wishing to be idle, bent down to pick up a broken tart crust. “May I help, Your Majesty?”

The Queen beamed. “Certainly! The worse you are at it, the better the result!”

So Alice tried to fit the tart pieces together, but they kept slipping from her fingers and landing in stranger shapes—first a star, then a teapot, and once a perfect likeness of the White Rabbit’s watch.

“Splendid!” the Queen cried. “Utterly hopeless! You shall be promoted at once!”

Before Alice could protest, two soldiers hoisted her onto a pedestal and fitted her with a crown of thorns—though the thorns quickly folded back into blossoms, so it was more ticklish than painful.

“Three cheers for Alice, Duchess of Disasters!” shouted the Queen.

The court cheered obediently. Some even un-clapped, which was much noisier than clapping.

Alice felt dreadfully embarrassed. “I really don’t think I deserve—”

“Nonsense!” bellowed the Queen. “Here in Underland, no one deserves anything they don’t already haven’t!”

And with that, the trumpets blared backward again, the soldiers marched heel-first away, and Alice was left crowned, confused, and quite certain she had never been less certain of anything.

Chapter Three – The Cheshire Arrival

Alice, still balancing the crown of blossoms on her head, wandered into a wood where the trees seemed to be growing shorter. Each time she looked up, the branches sank a little lower, until they brushed her hair as though the forest itself were bowing.

She paused by a stump that looked suspiciously like a chair turned inside-out. “I wonder if anyone lives here,” she said aloud.

“Of course I don’t,” said a voice from nowhere.

Alice turned sharply. A pair of whiskers appeared in mid-air, twitching politely. Next came a set of striped paws, then a swishing tail that curved into view. Finally, with a long, lazy stretch, the Cheshire Cat faded in, his grin the very last to arrive.

“You startled me,” Alice admitted.

“Impossible,” purred the Cat, arranging his grin as though it were a cravat. “I haven’t done it yet.”

Alice frowned. “But you’re already here.”

“Not quite,” said the Cat. His ears flicked into place with a faint pop. “I am still arriving.”

This was so perfectly Underlandish that Alice sighed instead of arguing. “Could you tell me which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends on where you don’t want to end up,” the Cat replied, curling his tail neatly around a branch that was still lowering itself.

“I don’t much mind where—” Alice began.

“Then it doesn’t matter which way you don’t go,” interrupted the Cat, his grin wobbling dangerously.

Alice stamped her foot. “You’re making less sense than usual.”

“Less is more, more or less,” said the Cat. “But if you’re searching for the way out, you must begin by arriving.”

And with that, his grin was the first thing to disappear, followed by his whiskers, his paws, his tail, and finally the faint trace of a chuckle that seemed to scuttle backwards into silence.

Alice was left alone in the shrinking forest, muttering, “If I must arrive before I begin, then I fear I shall never be finished.”

Chapter Four – Croquet Reversed

No sooner had Alice left the shrinking wood than she found herself on a vast lawn, already dotted with hoops and hedgehogs.

At least, Alice thought they were hedgehogs. On second glance, they were unmistakably children curled up into balls, squeaking indignantly whenever anyone tried to pick them up.

“Ah, you’re just in time!” cried the Queen of Hearts, striding heel-first across the grass. “The Croquet Match is about to end!”

Before Alice could ask what that meant, a flamingo swooped down, seized her firmly by the waist, and hoisted her high into the air.

“Put me down at once!” Alice cried.

“Can’t!” squawked the flamingo. “I’m the mallet, you’re the ball. Off we go!”

And off they went.

The flamingo swung Alice mightily at a hoop that hopped away on spindly legs, laughing rudely. Alice bounced across the lawn, rolled under the Queen’s gown, and shot straight into a hedge, where she stuck like a cork.

“Excellent form!” cried the spectators, un-clapping vigorously.

“Try again!” ordered the Queen.

This time, a hedgehog-child came scampering after Alice, rolling her neatly back onto the lawn. She was struck again—thwack!—and sent tumbling through three hoops at once. The hoops complained bitterly, dusting grass from their skirts.

“I don’t like being the ball,” Alice protested, brushing herself off.

“Nonsense,” snapped the flamingo, who was panting from the effort. “You’re perfectly round when you’re rolling.”

The Queen stamped her foot. “Off with her victory!” she declared. “She’s won nothing splendidly!”

At once, the match was declared finished before it had truly begun. The hoops hopped off, the hedgehogs uncurling and toddling away, and the flamingos flapped into the sky—leaving Alice dizzy, grass-stained, and quite cross.

She straightened her crown of blossoms (which had somehow stayed put through all the tumbling) and muttered: “If this is winning, I should very much like to lose.”

Chapter Five – The Dormouse Awakens

Alice wandered back to the long table where she had once un-eaten pudding. Only this time, the scene was noisier than a brass band tumbling down a staircase.

The Dormouse—who had always been the sleepiest of creatures in Wonderland—was now very much awake. He stood on a sugar bowl, waving his tiny paws like a conductor, chattering at top speed:

“And then! And then! And then!—only it wasn’t then, it was before, except backwards, so it must have been after—oh, do keep up!”

The Mad Hatter groaned, stuffing teabags into his ears. “Make him stop!”

The March Hare banged the table. “Bedtime story, at once! Or I shan’t get a wink of sleep!”

“But I’m not tired!” cried the Dormouse gleefully. “In fact, I feel positively restless!”

He launched into a story that began with its ending:

“…and so they all lived unhappily ever after, which is precisely why they never started. Now, in the middle, there was a beginning that ended before it began…”

Alice clutched her head. “I don’t understand a word!”

“Then you’re listening properly,” said the Hatter gloomily, emptying a teacup onto the table so it could pour itself back into the pot.

The Hare yawned. “It’s no use. He’s fully awake. Without his snoring, how are we supposed to rest?”

Alice, feeling sorry for them, leaned toward the Dormouse. “Wouldn’t you like a nap, even a little one?”

“Certainly not!” squeaked the Dormouse. “If I sleep, I shall dream of talking in my sleep, which is frightfully dull compared to talking while awake!”

He hopped onto Alice’s shoulder, whispering furiously into her ear about clocks that ticked backwards, cheese that aged into milk, and teapots that boiled cold. His words tumbled so quickly that Alice felt they were entering her head faster than she could forget them.

At last, in desperation, she dipped a spoon into an empty bowl and held it before him. The Dormouse leaned forward, saw his reflection, and—being surprised by the sight of his own eyes open—promptly closed them in fright.

He curled into a ball and began to snore.

The Hatter and Hare sighed in deep relief, laying their heads upon the table at once.

“Thank goodness,” said Alice softly. “At least someone’s asleep.”

And yet, she thought uneasily, wasn’t she supposed to be the one dreaming?

Chapter Six – The Caterpillar Shrinks

Alice soon came upon a patch of mushrooms that seemed to be un-growing, sinking shorter into the earth the longer she looked at them. Perched atop the smallest stalk sat the Caterpillar—or rather, someone who might have been the Caterpillar’s future self, because with every puff on his hookah, he grew a little smaller, a little younger, and a little more impatient.

“Who are you?” asked Alice politely.

“I was going to be someone,” the Caterpillar replied, “but I haven’t yet. With every puff I am less of myself, and more of not-myself.” He drew in a great cloud of smoke, and when he blew it out, he had shrunk to half his size.

Alice watched in fascination. “But what will happen when you become nothing?”

The Caterpillar scowled. “Why must children always ask the end of the story before the middle has begun?” He puffed again. Now he was no taller than Alice’s shoe.

“I only want to know which way I ought to go from here,” Alice pleaded.

The Caterpillar, now scarcely bigger than a thimble, climbed onto the rim of his hookah. “You must arrive first. After that, you may depart.”

“But how can I arrive before I leave?”

“By leaving after you arrive,” he snapped, already shrinking into a cocoon that wrapped itself neatly around him.

Alice leaned closer, hoping for clearer instructions, but the cocoon collapsed into a wriggling caterpillar egg no larger than a pearl. From within, his muffled voice declared:

“The sooner you begin, the later you’ll finish! Don’t be early, don’t be late—just arrive!”

The egg rolled gently off the mushroom and vanished into the soil. The hookah dissolved into smoke that flew straight back into the Caterpillar’s vanished mouth.

Alice was left quite alone in the un-mushroom patch, murmuring: “First I must arrive… but where? And when?”

She felt very much as though she were about to begin something she had already ended.

Chapter Seven – The Court Case of Un-Crimes

Alice entered a grand courtroom where everything seemed to be tidying itself away. The jurors were busily un-writing notes, their quills sucking ink back into bottles. The witnesses were un-speaking, pulling their words straight from the air and tucking them neatly into their mouths. Even the judge was un-banging his gavel so that the cracks in the desk sealed themselves smooth.

At the centre stood the Knave of Hearts, looking most bewildered.

“He is accused,” declared the White Rabbit (now acting as herald), “of not stealing the tarts!”

“Not stealing?” Alice repeated. “But isn’t that a good thing?”

“Certainly not!” thundered the Queen of Hearts, rising to her feet. “If he had stolen them, at least there would be something to punish. But to do nothing at all—why, that is the worst crime of never-having!”

The jury murmured, then swallowed their murmurs again.

The Knave wrung his hands. “But I didn’t do anything!”

“Precisely,” cried the Queen. “Guilty of not-doing, in the first degree!”

Alice leapt to her feet. “That’s absurd! You can’t punish someone for nothing!”

The whole court gasped and began to rewind even faster. Witnesses vanished into the wings before they had entered, the jury’s seats folded into the floor, and the judge’s wig curled itself back into a sheep, which trotted indignantly out of sight.

“Order in the court!” shouted the Queen, though her words were already unspoken.

Alice clutched her crown of blossoms. “Stop this at once!” she cried—but her voice came out backwards, a strange jumble of syllables she couldn’t quite understand.

Everything swirled about her—words flying into mouths, tarts leaping into ovens, soldiers un-marching into nothing. The courtroom folded up like a playing card, and Alice felt herself being sucked straight out of the middle and hurled back toward the beginning.

Epilogue – The Beginning of the End

Alice tumbled head over heels—though in Underland, it was more like heel over head—until she landed with a soft whump beneath a tree.

The crown of blossoms slipped neatly off her head and rooted itself in the soil, instantly becoming a small bush of roses that un-bloomed into tight buds. A flamingo waddled past her, bowed politely, and flapped itself into an egg.

Alice rubbed her eyes. She was back in the meadow where she had begun—or perhaps, where she had not yet begun. The White Rabbit was nowhere to be seen, which meant he had not met her yet, which meant she still had to say goodbye.

She sat up slowly, quite dizzy with beginnings and endings that refused to keep their places.

“Well,” she said aloud, “if I’ve already finished, I suppose I must be ready to start.”

And at that exact moment, she felt a curious certainty: that she would remember everything she hadn’t experienced, and forget everything she had not yet known.

Alice smiled. Yesterday was waiting just ahead.

And with that thought, she stood, brushed off her pinafore, and walked away into tomorrow—backwards.

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