Chapter Twelve: And There Was Futterwhacken (2)

[manniness]

 

Tarrant surveys the bustling, boisterous goings-on surrounding the impregnable walls of Causwick Castle and marvels. Here he is, sitting beside his Alice (who is frowning fiercely as one of her students – Ursalea... yes, that particular shade of fur is unmistakable on a bear – battles with a more experienced lion from Shuchland). The atmosphere is seething with life and packed with cheers and even the surrounding murky swamp and drooping willow trees seem more optimistic. The Callion has changed: here they are – he and his Alice and their son (who is around here somewhere, making a nuisance of himself, Tarrant happily muses) – witnesses to that metamorphosis, in attendance at Underland’s first Festival of War Games!

He had never expected to live to see this day.

Alice’s hand grips his tightly as they watch from the hastily-erected stands. Well, he does not watch the sparring match on the packed earth. He watches his Alice as she watches the matches. He knows, not from witnessing it for himself, but from reading his wife’s expressions, the varying degrees of tension in her shoulders, and the warmth that travels completely unimpeded through the renewed heart line, that her students have done well.

They have made her proud.

It is a sensation he recognizes easily, now. This warmth has always been there, he realizes. Yes, it has been ever-present and always for him. Alice has always been proud of him... he had simply mistakenly identified the feeling before as Alice-ness, as an intrinsic and inseparable aspect of who his wife is. Now he knows this warmth that she Sends him without conscious thought is not just the manifestation of her existence; it is not only a facet of her love... It is More.

Tarrant does not know if he has ever been More to anyone else. His family had loved him and been proud of him, he believes. The White Queen cares for him as part of her family. Mally and Thackery would fight beside him if ever the need arises again. But Alice... To Alice, he is More.

She had dared to Step back in Time with only the thought of saving him on her mind. No, she had not rescued the Oraculum and completed the assigned delivery for the sake of Underland. This time... this time she had fought, had given her life, to save him.

Alice had once told him, on the bed of a guest room in her mother’s house Above, that she loves him more than anything. And now he knows it is as true here and now as it had been then and there.

“Do you forgive me?” he whispers into her ear.

The combatants have not broken from their furious exchange of blows, but Alice responds immediately. She turns her full attention to him, gives him this moment that he selfishly demands despite the fact that she is working now!

“Forgive you? Whatever for?” she murmurs back with endearing confusion.

“I doubted you,” he reminds her, lifting his hand and trailing his fingertips over the scar on her throat. “After you died to save Underland, I thought it had finally happened... that you no longer...”

His heart aches at the thought and she Feels it.

“Tarrant...” she sighs with a rueful shake of her head. “I love you more than anything.”

His lips curve upward and his heart warms at the words, at the feel of that love, which she Sends along the heart line to him. “I know,” he replies. And this is not the place for kisses, nor is it the time – he has demanded too much of Alice’s attention as it is! – so he forces himself to turn back to the swordplay in the rustic arena.

And he is just in time to see the lion’s sword spiral through the air.

Ursalea had disarmed him.

The fight is over and the spectators applaud. Alice’s is the loudest voice amongst the rabble. She stands and cheers, grinning as madly as a Mad Hatter. The she-bear, on the other hand, is a bit too busy looking flunderwhapped to take a proper bow.

“She’ll advance to the next round after lunch,” Alice sighs with happiness as she lets Tarrant lead her from the wooden stands. The game participants and visitors mill about, awaiting the announcement of the next match. Some drink warm Grobbenale and Battenmead from mugs of wood or brass or even glass that are clipped to the owner’s belt when not in use. It is nice to see such accessories in the place of swords, Tarrant thinks.

“Things will be better next year,” Alice predicts, gazing around at the facilities that Leif had been in charge of preparing. “Leif will have more time, for one thing. And perhaps there will be more volunteers to help.”

Tarrant hums his agreement. Truthfully, he is rather indifferent to the games, himself. The peaceful compromise they represent is important, yes, but his Alice is not fighting in these matches, so the outcome and sophistication of the event itself has little bearing on him. But, at the mention of Leif, Tarrant finds himself glancing about and – yes, there! – locating the White King’s Champion.

Tarrant giggles at the sight of Tarra bullying the he-lion into accompanying her as she makes the rounds at the stalls. Perhaps she is looking for carpentry tools. Or perhaps a leather binding for what will become a book of memoirs of their house.

Alice pivots and glances at the sight that has so amused Tarrant. She smirks. “Do you really think Tarra will let him wait another three months?”

“Oh, Alice,” he answers. “That princess is having far too much fun to hurry the inevitable.” Inspiration – or perhaps instinct – takes him and he hears himself burr, “’Twon’ happen ’til her apprenticin’s done. Ye’ll see.”

“And so will you.” He clearly hears her knowing reply. The words are so soft a gust of wind could have easily blown them away. Luckily, the wind is quiet and leaves them be for Tarrant to catch.

“Aye,” he agrees, still hardly daring to believe that it is true. “I will.”

He does not thank her for defying the Fates for him, for venturing into Death for him, for suffering the unimaginable pain of passing through the Light at the End for him, for trusting him to follow her back, for risking everything for him.

He does not thank her... again. Yes, his Alice sometimes gets rather impatient when people repeat themselves too often. But a heart line message... that, he is sure, doesn’t count. And so he Sends her his awe again. And she Answers with her love.

“Lassling? Alice Lassling?”

Tarrant turns, placing himself half a step in front of his wife, wary of that title and all who freely speak it. This time, however, there is no threat. The speaker is the woman who had delivered tea and ginger bread and stew to them when Alice had bargained with Jaspien for succor.

“Madam...!” Tarrant greets her with a grin, and then pauses when he realizes... “I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. Tarrant Hightopp.”

“Inghan Causwoman,” the older woman says, shaking Tarrant’s hand firmly and then Alice’s. “’Tis gehd teh see ye again, Lassling.”

“Alice, please,” Tarrant’s wife gently – but firmly – objects. “And it is wonderful to be here. How are you finding the event?”

“Mos’ beneficious,” she declares with pride. “Auwr leather-works b’tradin’ well an’ th’ gifts from th’ guests...” She shakes her head in wonderment. “Auwr expectations werenae this high when auwr laird firs’ gave us th’ news tha’ we’d be hosts teh th’ festival.” She takes a moment, to look around at the people and mud-colored stands and arenas and recently drained but as yet un-planted fields. “’Tis nae Maigh,” she admits. “An’ we’ve a laung ways yet teh go afore it becomes th’ event we all hope it teh be...”

Inghan Causwoman pauses in her survey and pins Alice with a sharp look. “Bu’ if’n th’rumors’re true, then ’tis ye we all have teh thank f’r bringin’ a livelihood teh auwr lands, Champion Alice.”

Obviously uncomfortable, Alice responds with gratifying muchness, “You should not discount your lord’s hard work, Madam Causwoman. Without him, this would not be possible.”

The woman’s mouth curves into a wry grin. “Aye, ye’ve the righ’o’that.”

Tarrant reads, in Inghan Causwoman’s knowing look, a wily logic that is disconcerting in its near-Alice-ness. Alice returns the woman’s smile... and a secret is locked away: no, this festival would not have been possible without Jaspien’s efforts... nor would it have been possible if not for Alice’s initial suggestion of it. But Tarrant knows that the latter contribution will never be mentioned: no one will ever know that the White Queen’s Champion had also championed for the people of the Callion. That honor will fall squarely on Jaspien’s shoulders... just as it should.

Inghan leads them through the market, introducing them to various craftsmen, women, and beasts. Tarrant meets a man he is sure must be a relation of the Sheafments, who had developed an ingenious method for preserving records in the damp swamp air: tar and feathers!

“Th’ tar seals awae th’ wet, aye?”

“And the feathers?” Tarrant hears himself ask as he inspects a specimen.

The older man informs him, “Keeps i’tall afloat in th’event o’flood.”

Alice, Tarrant notices, finds many of the adaptations that the folk of the Callion have made of great interest as well. As they make the rounds with Inghan’s services as guide and introduction-facilitator, Tarrant has half a notion to invite many of these craft-workers to Iplam... or perhaps invite their apprentices...

“Remarkable work-womanship,” he praises one lady’s black-clay pots that had been baked in a charcoal pit rather than under the sun (which rarely shines very strongly here). And when he makes that comment, he watches Inghan and... yes, there! The calculating gleam in her eye is the very one he’d expected. It appears he is not the only one contemplating an exchange of sorts in the future. Truly, Iplam could be a middle-place between Causwick and Mamoreal, for it is not so much ruled by the White Queen as it is governed by the Hightopp family.

Yes, perhaps, in the future, Tarrant will invite some of the youngsters here to come to Iplam, to learn Outlandish trades and to share Callion technologies...

“My Alice...” he muses after they have bid farewell to Inghan and are on the way to collect their son. It is nearly supper-time and Alice’s students have nearly finished with the stew she’d assigned them to prepare. True to expectations, none of the guests have imposed upon the Callion’s meager food resources. In fact, if anything, they have supplemented it by bringing gifts of grain and dried fruit and vegetables, pots of honey and oil and herbs. The White Queen had thoughtfully issued a list of gifts that would be appreciated by the Callion and a great many of the visitors who have made the pilgrimage had heeded the advice.

“Yes?” she prompts, when he allows the scent of a well-spiced soup to distract him.

“Hm? Oh! Yes,” he clears his throat. “As I was saying, I do believe that Causwoman will be a person of interest to Iplam in the future.”

Alice grins. “I got that sense as well. She was telling me quite a lot about the society here... and made a special mention of the many children who hope to apprentice in Outlandish trades. Her own niece, included.”

“This bears consideration,” he concurs. “We would nae wan’teh anger the clans by removing opportunities from those who seek apprenticeships a’th’ Maigh, but...”

“Perhaps,” Alice suggests slowly, “we might do a bit of research into forgotten or lost trades? If we can create more work, then more apprentices will be needed...”

Tarrant grins at his wife and – again – marvels. “I ha’ th’ mos’ saganstitute Alice in aul o’ Underland,” he informs her softly.

“And if she is the only Alice in all of Underland?” she replies with a wide smile of humor.

“Then aul th’ more awespicious,” he murmurs. Uncaring of the dimming twilight and the people and creatures milling about from tent to bath house to shop stall to stew pot, he leans toward his wife and kisses her. Thoroughly.

Tarrant takes his Time – and a fair bit of Alice’s Time, as well... but these sorts of things must be done properly! – and only when the laughter and murmurings of uninvited onlookers begin to register does he pull back. And even then, he does so reluctantly.

Alice opens her eyes and looks at him. “You don’t have any lost time to make up for,” she reminds him, delivering the answer to the question he sees in her eyes. Yes, the kisses he gives her have changed, but not because he had missed any opportunities to kiss his wife. No, he lingers at her lips and prolongs their embraces now because...

“Alice, for how long were you without my kisses? Surely, I can attempt to compensate you for that.”

She grins. “All right. In that case, I suppose I can let you.” And when she lifts her face for another kiss, he immediately obliges.

“And now,” he remarks softly, ignoring the chattering and caterwauling and whistles, “shall we locate Tam?”

“We’d better. He’ll forgive us for many things, but not if we make him miss his supper.”

They wander around the corner of the castle wall, toward a mostly-drained but too-small field. It had been deemed too narrow to accommodate any of the games or crowds of spectators, but the rambunctious galumphing of littlin’ after littlin’ fit rather nicely within its safe boarders.

Tarrant sweeps the field with his gaze, looking for a swamp-mud-splattered boy with red-gold and curly hair – which could quite possibly be accessorized with twigs and bits of hanging moss – and stumbles to a halt just as Alice’s hand urgently grips his jacket sleeve.

Their hearts Stop.

For a long, breathless moment, Tarrant can only gape and gawk.

“Is that...?” Alice begins in a voice that is nearly devoid of breath.

“Our Tamial, aye.” Tarrant gulps as he watches his son lecture and then demonstrate with great flair... “Futterwhackening...”

And the shorter figure beside their son does its best to copy the movements, managing to do so but with considerably less panache.

“... with a... girl?” Alice wheezes.

Tarrant wheezes with her. This is very much a moment for wheezing, he decides. Or possibly outgribing... Or both.

“Does this mean... what I think it means?” Alice finally asks, no doubt prompted to do so by her Muchness and Curiosity.

“Aye,” Tarrant allows, reaching blindly for her hand. “Aye, it does.”

From the other side of the field, Tamial’s voice carries as he instructs his young and lovely student, “You need to think of something happier.”

“Happier?” she answers in tone far too bewitching to belong to a mere littlin’. Oh, no. That is the voice of a Lass. “Like what?”

Tam huffs, immune to her teasing. “Like... flying! Like feeling the wind in your face or... like winning a duel or like... outracing Time or...”

“Like kissing?”

“Eh... huh?” Tam appears utterly flunderwhapped by the suggestion. “Ki—?!” he squeaks.

With a look Tarrant recognizes Very Well – for his Alice has worn it on numerous occasions – the little lass leans toward Tamial and invites, “I’m sure I’ll think much happier thoughts if you kiss me...”

“Uhm, I... W-w-well...”

Tarrant holds his breath. His chest aches as Alice does the same.

Tam gulps very visibly in the darkening evening. “Uh... all right...”

And that is how Tamial Hightopp not only receives his first – and thankfully chaste! – kiss, but also how he manages to achieve heretofore un-managable and ought-to-be-impossible Futterwhacken steps.

Tarrant watches in apprehensive dismay as his son positively glows with happiness. He grins... well, madly as he Futterwhackens beside a lass who – from the look of that smile – must have a bit of Cheshire in her family tree somewhere! Tarrant opens his mouth – to despair or moan or beg for mercy, he’s not sure which – but nothing whatsoever emerges.

It is Alice who, at least, manages: “Er... have you spoken to Tam about... um, girls, yet?”

Tarrant frantically shakes his head in the negative.

Bloody bulloghin’ brangergain!

He remembers – with great trepidation! – when his own Fa had sat him down for The Chat and – blast i’tall – he’d been about Tam’s age at the time and... Horridly, completely, wretchedly...! A bloody Fate Worse Than Death...!

“Surely not?” Alice inquires, very obviously (and bravely) biting back a snort – or several – of amusement and Tarrant realizes he must have been muttering aloud.

“What? I... oh! I...” He glances across the field at his son who is now giggling along with that lass! Tarrant’s heart pounds in his chest: drumbeats of Dread. Perhaps, for this occasion, he should revisit the idea of giving Tam that top hat. Had he prepared a ribbon for this? He’s sure he must have! Perhaps a scarlet one, warning him of lascivious lasses and their smiles and giggles and demands for kisses and—!

“I could talk to him,” Alice playfully suggests. “I’ve given advice on the subject before, if you recall.”

Their first Maigh, yes, Tarrant does recall! Perhaps too well! He meets his wife’s gaze. (And if he had seen any hint of apprehension in her expression, he would have taken her up on that offer!) Faced with a veritable outpouring of unsettling muchness, he quickly assures her, “No, no! I’ll do it!” He utters the words on his son’s behalf, thinking only of rescuing Tamial from an experience far more mortifying than the lad can contemplate. Dear Fates, how wretchedly embarrassing it would be to discuss Those Topics with one’s own Mam, who fancies herself a Champion of her son’s Chastity!

Tamial might one day forgive him, but he would never forgive himself!

As preoccupied as he is with these thoughts, the realization dawns rather belatedly – in fact, it occurs to him as Alice’s muchy expression transforms into a smirk of triumph – that he had just been masterfully maneuvered into making a Promise. Tarrant blinks, considers retaliating, and then sighs. He gazes upon his wife, feeling so many things all at once – weariness and toleration and humor and love and...

“You, my Alice, are dangerously slithy, when you set your mind to it.”

“Ha! Luckily for you!”

And yes, he must admit that his Alice has used her cunning to his advantage many times. “Aye,” he agrees. “I’m a ver’lucky mahn, indeed.”

Turning back to the now-murky-with-darkness field and suddenly-up-growing-son within it, he sighs. Tam continues grinning and Futterwhackening with the lass an the evening’s emerging dragon flies. He grumbles, “I suppose this means he will finally demand that the doorknob be turned around.”

“If he doesn’t, I’m sure the doorknob will. I’m a bit surprised Tam never realized why it was installed the way it was.”

“Oh... he’ll un-riddle it soon enough,” Tarrant acknowledges. Yes, when his son finally demands Privacy, he will realize that his parents had been keeping an eye on him – or rather, they had been keeping the doorknob’s eye on him. Not that doorknobs have eyes, and yet they make marvelous child monitoring devices!

Alice tugs on his arm and Tarrant stomps (very noisily) over to Tam, where they introduce themselves to the lass – a Traeva Causwoman and the very niece of their helpful guide, Inghan! – and then threaten Tam with overnight starvation if he does not accompany them back to the tent. They do not try to to get a single, coherent sentence out of him once they have seen his new friend home. Alice snorts into her stew at Tam’s dreamy expressions and – sometimes – vibrating ears.

Otherwise, it is a rather hum-drum sort of evening despite the fact that they have made a tent their home for the duration of the festival. Tarrant lies down beside his Alice and, exhausted from being awakened by every odd swamp and festival noise during the night before, tumbles into sleep...

And then, after what seems like a very short duration of time, he wakes. It smells quite early in the morning and the world is cloaked in the darkness that lingers before dawn and the next round of games when Tarrant gasps and his eyelids fly open. He sits up, his heart pounding, and his wife stirs.

“What is it?” she whispers. “A nightmare?”

Her warm hands reach for him and he takes them. Mindful of their son, who is sleeping the sound sleep of the well-Futterwhackened only a step away, he whispers back, “Nae, my Alice. A dream.”

She crawls from her pallet into his arms and listens as he tells her of the place he had visited in that dream, of its lovely, pure, golden light. “As if’twere built from Love itself,” he murmurs into her hair. “An’ th’Hightopps were there... all of them, my Alice. An’ they told me...”

Such wonderful things: their love for him and Alice and Tamial, their pride in all that they have done and will do!

“An’ Townsend! He was there,” Tarrant lisps quickly and quietly as Alice listens. “An’ yer Mam an’ yer Fa! An’ they were sae proud o’ ye, Alice. An’ they aul luv ye sae much! Ye take afteh them aul, aye? Yer Mam’s muchness an’ Ascot’s savvy an’ yer Fa’s merry madness... An’ I dreamed,” he tells her as quickly as possible, lest the dream start to fade away and he forgets it! “I dreamed they gave us their blessings, Alice.”

“Tarrant,” she murmurs on a hitching breath and only then does he feel her tears soaking into his shirt and cooling in the early morning chill. “My love, my Hatter, my Raven...” She lifts her face to his and he can just make out the edge of her smile in the darkness. “I know they did.”

He smiles back. “Of course ye do,” he agrees. “Of course. But still... ’twas nice teh hear.”

“Yes, it was. Thank you, Tarrant, for that dream.”

He giggles softly. “I am not sure I deserve thanks, my Alice. It was only a dream.”

“It is still a dream,” she insists. “Remember? I’m still dreaming us, Tarrant. And I’m not waking up.”

“If that is the case,” he warns her, his brows twitching with the rapture and magnitude of his thoughts, “this adventure of ours could take a very, very long time.”

“Perhaps,” she murmurs back, “that is precisely what I intend.”

Tarrant curls closer to her and sighs happily into her hair. “Then, by any and all means, my Alice, dream.”

And then she settles down against his side, sighs out a happy breath and – for all intents and purposes – appears to do just that.
 

*~*~*~*

Notes:

And now we are all SURE that Tarrant is really Tarrant and not some other soul who snuck his way back into Life at the last possible moment. I mean, really, people. Would I do that to Alice and Tarrant? REALLY?