try to recall the “’Twas brillig” poem definitions. Wasn’t four o’clock mentioned? According to the sundial’s shadow, it’s a little past five. Maybe I have to turn back the clock somehow.
I try to force the gnomon shaft to a new position so its shadow will fall on the Roman numeral IV. It doesn’t budge, either. Maybe the statue just has to think it’s four.
I dig through the backpack, dragging out the feather quill I pulled from my dad’s recliner. “With the touch of a feather . . .” I center the plume over the dial and move it until it casts a shadow pointing to the IV. Then I tuck the quill into a crevice to hold it in place. The sundial still reads five o’clock, too, but I’m hoping my improvisation is enough to do the trick.
A series of clicks and clatters emerges from inside the statue’s base, like latches being opened. Heart racing, I wedge my shoulder against the stone boy’s arms. With my heels rooted into the ivy, I use my legs to push and strain against the stone.
Rock grates along metal, and the statue tips over on its base. A poof of dust belches, then clears, revealing a hole the size of a well.
I drop to my knees. Inside the backpack, I push things around to find my flashlight. Flipping it on, I search the depths below. No bottom in sight. I can’t dive headfirst into some tunnel if I can’t see where it ends.
An overwhelming sense of loneliness and panic wraps around me. I’m not a fan of heights—the very reason I haven’t mastered an ollie in skateboarding yet. I love the thrill of the ride, but freefalling has never been my idea of fun. I once went rappelling in a canyon with Jeb and Jenara. The climbing up wasn’t so bad, but Jeb had to piggyback me the entire way down while I kept my eyes shut.
Again, I find myself wishing he was here.
I sit up. That stirring pressure inside me comes to life . . . it assures me I’m ready for this.
If reality is anything like the Alice book, she doesn’t fall so much as floats her way down. The physical laws might be different within the hole.
So maybe it’s not how far down but how fast .
I drop the flashlight in. It bobs down slowly, like a glowing bubble. I almost laugh aloud.
I take a swig of water from one of the bottles at the bottom of the bag. Then I zip it closed and position the pack on my shoulders.
Perched on my hands and knees at the hole’s edge, I have a moment of doubt. I weigh a lot more than a piece of plastic and some batteries. Maybe I should push in a few heavy rocks, just to be sure.
“Al!”
The shout from behind makes me scramble. Dirt gives way beneath my hands. Screaming, I clutch at empty air and tumble in.
Inside, the hole widens. More like a feather on a breeze than a skydiver, I float, my position shifting from vertical to horizontal. My stomach quivers, trying to adjust to weightlessness.
Overhead, someone dives in after me.
In seconds, he latches on to my wrist and tugs to align our bodies.
It’s impossible . . .
“Jeb?”
His arms lock us together, his gaze intent on the slowly passing scenery. “Sweet mother of—”
“Stuff and nonsense,” I interrupt with a quote from the original Wonderland book. “How are you here?”
“Where is here?” he asks, mesmerized by our surroundings.
Open wardrobes filled with clothes, other furniture, stacks of books on floating shelves, pantries, jelly jars, and empty picture frames all cling randomly to the tunnel’s sides as if stuck with Velcro. Thick ivy curls around each item and embeds it in the dirt walls, pinning everything in place.
Each time we pass something, Jeb draws me closer, his expression a mix of dread and awe. At one point, I work my arm free and snag a jar wrapped in leaves. I bring it between us and twist off the lid, then stretch out once more to leave the jar upside down, floating alongside us. A dribble of orange marmalade oozes from it and stays suspended as we drift—down, down, down until our feet gently meet the bottom, as if
I try to force the gnomon shaft to a new position so its shadow will fall on the Roman numeral IV. It doesn’t budge, either. Maybe the statue just has to think it’s four.
I dig through the backpack, dragging out the feather quill I pulled from my dad’s recliner. “With the touch of a feather . . .” I center the plume over the dial and move it until it casts a shadow pointing to the IV. Then I tuck the quill into a crevice to hold it in place. The sundial still reads five o’clock, too, but I’m hoping my improvisation is enough to do the trick.
A series of clicks and clatters emerges from inside the statue’s base, like latches being opened. Heart racing, I wedge my shoulder against the stone boy’s arms. With my heels rooted into the ivy, I use my legs to push and strain against the stone.
Rock grates along metal, and the statue tips over on its base. A poof of dust belches, then clears, revealing a hole the size of a well.
I drop to my knees. Inside the backpack, I push things around to find my flashlight. Flipping it on, I search the depths below. No bottom in sight. I can’t dive headfirst into some tunnel if I can’t see where it ends.
An overwhelming sense of loneliness and panic wraps around me. I’m not a fan of heights—the very reason I haven’t mastered an ollie in skateboarding yet. I love the thrill of the ride, but freefalling has never been my idea of fun. I once went rappelling in a canyon with Jeb and Jenara. The climbing up wasn’t so bad, but Jeb had to piggyback me the entire way down while I kept my eyes shut.
Again, I find myself wishing he was here.
I sit up. That stirring pressure inside me comes to life . . . it assures me I’m ready for this.
If reality is anything like the Alice book, she doesn’t fall so much as floats her way down. The physical laws might be different within the hole.
So maybe it’s not how far down but how fast .
I drop the flashlight in. It bobs down slowly, like a glowing bubble. I almost laugh aloud.
I take a swig of water from one of the bottles at the bottom of the bag. Then I zip it closed and position the pack on my shoulders.
Perched on my hands and knees at the hole’s edge, I have a moment of doubt. I weigh a lot more than a piece of plastic and some batteries. Maybe I should push in a few heavy rocks, just to be sure.
“Al!”
The shout from behind makes me scramble. Dirt gives way beneath my hands. Screaming, I clutch at empty air and tumble in.
Inside, the hole widens. More like a feather on a breeze than a skydiver, I float, my position shifting from vertical to horizontal. My stomach quivers, trying to adjust to weightlessness.
Overhead, someone dives in after me.
In seconds, he latches on to my wrist and tugs to align our bodies.
It’s impossible . . .
“Jeb?”
His arms lock us together, his gaze intent on the slowly passing scenery. “Sweet mother of—”
“Stuff and nonsense,” I interrupt with a quote from the original Wonderland book. “How are you here?”
“Where is here?” he asks, mesmerized by our surroundings.
Open wardrobes filled with clothes, other furniture, stacks of books on floating shelves, pantries, jelly jars, and empty picture frames all cling randomly to the tunnel’s sides as if stuck with Velcro. Thick ivy curls around each item and embeds it in the dirt walls, pinning everything in place.
Each time we pass something, Jeb draws me closer, his expression a mix of dread and awe. At one point, I work my arm free and snag a jar wrapped in leaves. I bring it between us and twist off the lid, then stretch out once more to leave the jar upside down, floating alongside us. A dribble of orange marmalade oozes from it and stays suspended as we drift—down, down, down until our feet gently meet the bottom, as if
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