Alice and the Places That Think: Ballykillduff Wonderland
Prologue
Alice decided later that the most troubling part was not the sheep.
The sheep was troubling, certainly. It stood in the middle of the lane with the quiet confidence of something that knew it had always been there and always would be. Its wool was the colour of old clouds, its eyes were thoughtful, and around its neck hung a small wooden sign that read:
BACK SOON
Alice read it twice.
“I don’t think that’s how sheep work,” she said politely.
The sheep regarded her in silence, chewing in a manner that suggested deep consideration of the matter. Then it turned, quite deliberately, and began to walk away down the lane.
“Excuse me,” Alice called. “I think you’ve dropped your…”
The sheep did not stop.
Alice hesitated. She had been taught very firmly never to follow strange animals, especially those displaying written notices. But the lane itself seemed to lean after the sheep, curving gently, as if it preferred that direction. Even the hedges appeared to listen.
With a sigh that felt far older than she was, Alice followed.
The lane led her into Ballykillduff.
At least, that was what the sign said. It stood crookedly at the edge of the village, its letters faded and patched over, as though someone had changed their mind halfway through spelling it. Beneath the name, in much smaller writing, was a second line:
Population: Yes
Alice frowned.
The village looked entirely ordinary, which in her experience was often a bad sign. Stone cottages huddled together as if exchanging secrets. A postbox leaned sideways in what might have been exhaustion. Somewhere, a clock was ticking very loudly and very wrongly.
The sheep paused beside the postbox.
It did not look back. It did not need to.
The postbox cleared its throat.
“Letter?” it asked.
Alice jumped.
“I—no,” she said. “I mean, not yet.”
“Take your time,” said the postbox kindly. “We’ve plenty of it. Too much, if you ask me. It keeps piling up.”
The sheep nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Alice said carefully, “but could you tell me where I am?”
The postbox considered this. “Well now,” it said, “that depends. Where do you think you ought to be?”
“I don’t know,” Alice admitted.
“Ah,” said the postbox, sounding relieved. “Then you’re exactly right.”
The sheep turned at last and met Alice’s eyes. For a moment she had the strange feeling that it recognised her.
Then the ground beneath her boots gave a polite little sigh and began to sink.
Alice did not scream. She had learned by now that screaming rarely helped.
Instead, as Ballykillduff folded itself carefully over her like a story closing its covers, she wondered whether anyone at home would notice she was gone.
The sheep watched until she vanished completely.
Then it picked up its sign, turned it around, and hung it back around its neck.
BACK AGAIN.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 