“Adam, your boyfriend?” the Pillar says. I notice he's always focusing when I mention Adam.
“I dreamt about him last night. He mentioned the same thing the White Queen said,” I explain. “That the power the Cheshire is acquiring is scarier than death itself. He also said the Cheshire needs Constance to complete the ritual.”
“So that’s it,” the Pillar clicks his fingers. “The Cheshire needs them both, the mask and Constance to perform the ritual to get his power back.”
“We could be too late.”
“No, we’re not,” the Pillar says. “Think of it. Why did Adam show up in your dream just one day before the Kattenstoet festival? A festival about cats. Something in the festival completes the circle of the ritual. A mask, a girl, and a crazy event about people throwing cats out their windows. That’s all it takes. It's a mad world out there.”
Chapter 55
Grote Market, Town of Ypres, Belgium
The Cheshire, wearing one of his grinning cat masks, sat with a glass of milk in his hand. He was rocking back and forth in a chair to the song Cats in the Cradle by Harry Chapman. The view in front of him was enchanting. He was looking over the famous Grote Market in the Belgian town of Ypres. The sun was unusually present today, fighting against the stubborn snow. Everyone was preparing for the Kattenstoet festival.
He lifted his mask for a moment and took one last sip from his glass. It was a special brand of milk, exclusively exported from Cheshire County. He let the warm milk sweep down his throat and let out a purr. Then he put his grinning mask back on.
Lowering his hand, he pressed his fingers hard on the glass until it cracked. Red and white colors were spilled together on the parquet, and it felt good to him. Sometimes small things like breaking a glass were an even better release from the anger he suppressed for humankind inside. He let out an even longer purr, waving through the opening in his orange mask.
Behind him, in this abandoned Renaissance hotel, a girl lay tied on the floor. She was young, about ten years old. Unlike his other victims, she didn't have a grin sewn to her mouth. She's been there for some time. She wasn't dead yet. She was very special, and he needed her.
The Cheshire gazed briefly at the antique mirror next to him. It was old, wrapped up in spider webs and dead butterflies caught by the spiders themselves. But still he could see his masked face. He looked silly in this mask, he thought. He missed his face. His real face. Most of all, he missed his Cheshire Power, the one Lewis Carroll took from him. It was time to get it back.
None of that was the reason he broke the glass of milk. He loved milk. It was his favorite thing in the world. The worst thing in the world was humans. He could not forget or forgive what they had done to him in this town when he was a kid.
The Cheshire, possessing an old woman's body for now, turned to look down from his French window. An old woman was a great disguise, in case he needed to take off his mask. He looked down upon the arriving tourists ready to celebrate.
Everyone in this Flemish part of Belgium talked in a language he hated most. French. They were on top of his human-hate list. The Cheshire hated how the French ate raw meat without cooking it, like cannibals. He hated the way they pronounced his name with an accent: Che-cha-ree, it sounded uncannily close to “Cherie” in French, which meant “sweetheart.” The Cheshire didn't want to be anyone's sweetheart. He didn't want to think of having a heart. What he hated most about the French and the Belgians was the memory they brought back. That harsh memory that made him crack the glass of milk and never care about his bleeding hand.
The memory was about this town, Ypres. It was many centuries ago, when they started killing, throwing, and burning cats in Europe. A long time before he fled to Wonderland.
People thought that cats died young, but they were immortal spirits. Wonderland was an unknown place then. It was a long time before Lewis Carroll and the Cheshire turned into enemies in a chessboard game called life.
The Cheshire closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and remembered the first time cats were massacred in front of his eyes...
Chapter 56
Ypres, Belgium 15th Century
He was a kid. A happy, furry, tail wiggling, and purring cat like the others. He had just stopped getting food and milk from his mother a week ago. His dad wasn't fond of his laziness and urged him to go out and start hunting for food. Cheshire wasn't fond of killing animals, but he had to eat.
"Rats, my son," his mother purred. "That’s our best food."
"But they are horrible little creatures, mommy," he said. "I mean, I get so grossed out by their noses and whiskers."