“How so?”
“Like a game of phone when you whisper a word in someone’s ears and it comes out something similar, but very different in meaning from the original.”
“Like the word ‘her’ being ‘hair’, maybe?” I am just going along, shoving the killing sounds outside behind me.
The Pillar’s eyes widen, as if I’ve just discovered a way out of here.
“What is it?”
“‘Hair’ seems to be the solution,” he stared at the groove in the coffin again. “The groove doesn’t resemble bending palm trees, but a few hairies in the wind.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Father Williams says.
“Even so, what does that mean?” I kneel beside The Pillar.
“It means that lock doesn’t mean ‘lock’ as in ‘lock and key,’” He says.
“I’m not following.” But then I realize I actually do. My mouth hangs open wide for a moment. “Lock as in a lock of hair.”
“It’s also a double entendre,” he says. “A phrase or word open to two interpretations. ‘Her Lock’ could mean her lock of hair. Or Hair Lock, which also means a lock of hair.” The Pillar looks a bit dizzy, phrasing this and thinking about it. “Damn you, Lewis, for messing with my head. In all cases, the groove opens with a lock of your hair, Alice.”
“My hair?” I ask. “How would you have come to this conclusion?”
“Because, my dear Alice,” The Pillar says. “Lewis, as weird as he sometimes was, kept a lock of your hair as a bookmark in one of his diaries. A strange action, but a fact, which scholars can’t explain until today.”
I am not sure about Lewis keeping a lock of my hair, but I don’t sweat it. The Pillar, as resourceful as he always is, hands me a knife, and I cut a lock of my hair and set into the groove.
Instantly, we hear a click, and the coffin is ready to be opened.
“Hurry!” Father Williams urges us again. “The Reds are by the door.”
The Pillar and I push the heavy coffin’s lid open, and there it is, the thing that the Chessmaster calls Carroll’s Knight. But it definitely is like nothing I’ve ever imagined it would be.
Chapter 21
Carroll’s Knight is so small I actually tuck it inside my pocket. “How is this thing in my pocket so important?” I ask The Pillar.
“I think I have an idea,” he says. “But first we have to find a way out of here.”
Through the slightly ajar door, I see the Reds winning outside.
“Soon they’ll get in,” The Pillar says. “We need to think fast.”
“I can use my None Fu,” I say.
“I doubt a nonsensical martial art would help in this narrow space,” The Pillar says then turns to face Father Williams. He shoots him that look like earlier. I am starting to believe The Pillar and Father Williams know each other. “How about you show us your talents in fighting the Reds, Father Williams?”
“Talents?” I wonder. Father Williams is a bit old for knowing how to fight the Reds. He has bushy white hair, and arched back and is pretty overweight with a balloon belly.
“All right,” Father Williams says. “You got me.”
“So you are who I think you are,” The Pillar says. “Just like in the Lewis Carroll’s poem.”
“What poem?” I ask.
“Later Alice,” The Pillar says. “Let the old man help us out of here first.”
Father Williams knuckles his fingers and takes a deep breath. “I haven’t done this in a few years, so I may look a bit rusty.”
“I’m sure rusty isn’t that bad,” The Pillar seems amused. “Why don’t you start with your famous somersault?”
I am baffled, unable to fathom what’s going on.
But Father Williams surprises me with an actual somersault, as if he were an Asian teen Ninja from an anime of ridiculous superheroes.
“Frabjous,” The Pillar says, helping keep Father Williams stable on his feet. “Go get them!”
With a wide open mouth, I watch Father Williams use his remarkable techniques, somersaulting, walking on walls, on hands, fighting with his bare arms, and kicking everyone’s butt outside.
“What’s going on?” I ask The Pillar.
“I will tell you on our way out.” The Pillar elbows me and pulls me outside where we start to descend the spiral stairs while Father Williams is kicking Reds left and right.
“How can he do that?” I ask.
“He is something, isn’t he?” The Pillar enjoys the view of the fight from atop. “No wonder Carroll made him a keeper of secrets.”
“Shouldn’t we help him?” I say.
“Father Williams can take care of himself. Didn’t you ever read Carroll’s poem about him?”