Page 31 of Wondrous

I turned to find the jabberwock watching me curiously. “Why do they call you that?” he said.

“Oh—never mind,” I said, still red. “It’s a long story.”

He looked like he was about to ask another question, but then his expression darkened. “Well, at least someone has some empathy for me.”

We left the meadow behind, much to my relief (the flowers were still yelling “Weed!” at me), and found the path again on the other side. It wound through a dark, swampy area, where long snakes rustled through the water and mosquitoes hummed in our ears. The path climbed up, and the forest grew drier and less buggy. My relief was short-lived, though, for from the forest came a familiar—and unwelcome—swish-swish sound, together with the clomp of small paws, drawing nearer.

Seconds later, a broomdog burst out of the trees. He gave an ecstatic howl, as if he’d been reunited with long-lost friends, then circled around us, leaping into the air with much excited yipping.

“Don’t even think about it,” I cried, surging forward and seizing the broomdog by the scruff. He whined and shook free, fixing me with a betrayed look. Then he fled back into the forest shadow.

“That was cold,” the jabberwock said, giving me the sort of look that seemed to add, Not that I’d expect any better from you.

“Oh, was it,” I said irritably—my quick lunge for the broomdog seemed to have opened a blister on my foot. “Very well. He can be your responsibility, then.”

The jabberwock frowned, and I could tell he didn’t know how to reply—clearly they didn’t have broomdogs in the Jabberwoods. I knew the creature would return eventually—broomdogs loved company and were as obsessive about paths as a collie was about sheep. Sure enough, not five minutes later, the thing was back, trotting alongside us, this time with a slightly wounded air. His unnatural head of bristles had leaves and acorns woven into it, as well as worms and other things that did not incline me to pet him. Broomdogs would sweep up any path, regardless of what was lying on it.

“Good dog,” the jabberwock said. “Don’t pay her any mind.”

The broomdog wagged his tail in delight. I had always felt a little sorry for broomdogs—they seemed to have no ability to comprehend what a menace they were and in fact carried around the permanent conviction that they were helpful to travelers, who were simply too foolish or contrary to appreciate the broomdogs’ generosity. The only way to get rid of them was by repeatedly chasing them away until they gave up and went elsewhere; a single kind word was like waving a red flag at a bull.

As I had expected, the broomdog charged ahead and began sweeping away our path.

“What are you—” the jabberwock sputtered. “Hey! Don’t do that.”

The broomdog, though, was lost in a frenzy of delight and only swept faster. The jabberwock and I ran after him, but the broomdog had raised an enormous cloud of dust, and after stumbling around for a few moments, I had lost all sense of direction. When the dust finally settled, the path was gone.

Worse, though, the broomdog hadn’t just erased the path; somehow he’d made it look as if the landscape had never contained a path in the first place. Before us, where there had been a smooth track of beaten earth, was now a hodgepodge of big stones and hillocks and prickle bushes that we would have to wade through. The broomdog gave a happy yip and charged away into the woods, off to bestow his services on some other lucky traveler.

The jabberwock looked crestfallen and a little embarrassed. He didn’t meet my eyes, clearly expecting me to go off on him.

Instead I only sighed and said, “This way?”

“Yes,” he said, after a pause. He hurried to get ahead of me to direct our course, and the silence between us became a little less icy, even if it wasn’t any more companionable.

The afternoon darkened into evening, and at last the jabberwock seemed to decide we’d walked far enough for one day. I came upon him in a clearing, where he’d seated himself on a boulder. He’d already gathered firewood and piled it neatly in the center of the clearing and was now staring into the distance, where the forest opened to reveal a sweeping view of the Mome Mountains, green and tipped with snow. Several of the peaks were obscured by clouds, which trailed down the slopes like cobwebs.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” I said.

He jumped, and I realized how absorbed he’d been by the view—I wouldn’t have been capable of surprising him otherwise. He frowned at me, but weariness must have taken the edge off his anger, because he only said, “I’ve heard stories about the mountains, but I’ve never seen them.”

I set about starting the fire. I very much hoped it wouldn’t rain that night, given that I was now lacking a tent. “Jabberwocks don’t go into the mountains?” I said.

“Most of us don’t leave our woods. It’s too dangerous.” He went back to staring at the snowy peaks. We hadn’t found Peddler’s Path, which had such a strange course it was nearly impossible to remember, but we had found a house in the woods with a thatched roof and an overgrown garden. When we’d gone in, we’d discovered that the house was in fact a shop selling all sorts of oddities, from periscopes to children’s lollipops, all gathering dust. The place had been so unusual, seemingly abandoned in the middle of the wilderness, that we’d chosen clothes for the jabberwock hurriedly and left as quickly as possible. Consequently, his clothes were rather mismatched—a dust-colored cloak over what looked like a princess’s black tea dress, which might have passed for a tunic on him if not for the lacy hem, and farmer’s breeches and boots.

“I’ve never been to the Momes myself,” I said. “Only glimpsed them from the paths.”

“We used to travel more.” He was leaning toward the distant peaks. “When Wonderland was younger, and not so crowded. That’s what my grandfather always said.”

“When it was younger?” I said, hoping he would go on. I was fascinated by stories of how Wonderland had come to be—not that I’d heard many. A few cryptic hints from the Cat, and that was about it.

But his face had shuttered again, and he turned from the view abruptly, as if it irritated him. “I should survey the surrounding woods for enemies, if we’re going to sleep,” he said, and vanished into the trees with his now-familiar slinking gait.

“I’ve been thinking,” I called after him. “You know my name. But I don’t know yours. It doesn’t seem fair.”

“We don’t have names,” he said from somewhere to my left.

“I’ll give you one, then. How about Arthur? Or Sebastian?” I couldn’t really see him, but every once in a while the shadows seemed to bestir themselves beyond the invisible boundary of our campsite. “You look a bit like a Finnegan. Or—hear me out on this—how about Jeremiah? Maybe it’s just the J, but something about—”