Chapter 51: The Man in the Dream |
Sunlight streamed through the window, and thin cellulose fragments that had escaped from between aged books gently settled upon the floor.
The unwinding of a clockwork spring, the shrill cry of a pendulum reaching its apex before descending, and Lord Liddell’s weathered voice resonated softly throughout the room.
“As I mentioned before, Dodgson favored Alice among the three sisters. All three sisters and three brothers were aware of this. Only the oblivious adults remained ignorant. But from a certain point onward, that favoritism began to intensify alarmingly, until even I, who was rarely present at home, became aware of it.”
Liddell clenched his fist.
“Later, Dodgson would invite Alice alone to picnics, or hold her hand while walking around the yard. Since he wasn’t neglecting his tutoring duties, there was no grounds to reproach him for that alone. However, we all sensed something was amiss, even if we couldn’t articulate it. He was too close. Too close to that child.”
Veins protruded across his hands where skin had grown thicker than muscle with age.
“And finally, that cursed day arrived. Alice went out with Dodgson as usual, but strangely, returned home alone late at night. Her once-glossy black hair was disheveled, and her body was covered with flowers and leaves that didn’t grow anywhere nearby, along with copious amounts of sand. The pretty dress Alice so adored was tattered as if caught on branches, and her appearance was wretchedly unkempt, like someone who had wandered outdoors for days. My wife, startled, asked the child where she had been. Alice answered thus.”
Liddell said.
“Wonderland.”
“At this point, I could no longer dismiss the situation. As soon as dawn broke, I went directly to Dodgson and forbade any private interactions with my daughters. I laid down the condition that if he couldn’t abide by this, he would never see my children again. He appeared crestfallen, but ultimately accepted the terms without protest. I was thoroughly deceived by that charlatan.”
Liddell’s drooping eyelids trembled.
“On the surface, he seemed to teach the children with utmost diligence. Though he was such a reticent character that one could scarcely guess his thoughts, he appeared to harbor no ulterior motives. But I could tell that Alice was still in collusion with him. Her eccentricities worsened with each passing day. Somehow, Dodgson and Alice had developed their own cipher, and I was forced to conclude they continued their private meetings regularly.”
“A cipher, you say?”
I couldn’t let that word pass.
“Indeed. Dodgson possessed remarkable linguistic talent. He would craft ingenious wordplay by combining various terms. He fully exercised that talent to create several mathematical and linguistic ciphers. Unpleasant as it is, I’ve committed some to memory myself. Whatever manner of man he was, his talent was undeniable.”
I recalled the coded letter. I could now surmise the origins of the elaborate wordplay-like ciphers that Alice had created.
“Eventually, I expelled Dodgson from the mansion entirely. Beyond that, I had someone monitor him to ensure he didn’t meet Alice in secret. Don’t attempt to censure me for this. The neurosis that gripped my mind then was so severe that I would fly into a rage at the mere sight of mathematical symbols. The fact that I didn’t seek him out with a dagger in hand already demonstrated considerable restraint.”
“I understand. I have a friend I’d like to stab as well.”
“I appreciate your understanding. I hope you exercise similar patience. Regardless, he appeared to honor his oath. Though Oxford isn’t particularly vast, he genuinely avoided any proximity to our mansion. I naively presumed that the entire affair had concluded.”
Liddell exhaled deeply after finishing his lengthy narrative. He paused to catch his breath. I sensed the story was about to take an entirely different turn.
“My throat is parched from so much talking. Would you care for some milk tea?”
“I missed lunch myself.”
I nodded. He poured cold tea from a teapot placed nearby and mixed it with milk.
“In my advancing years, sweets have become troublesome due to my teeth. Hence, there are no refreshments prepared.”
“That’s quite all right.”
We each sipped our milk tea in silence. Neither of us rushed to continue the conversation.
“Alice, that child was… peculiar. I’ve been trying to find the words, but they elude me.”
When his teacup was half-empty, he naturally resumed his narrative.
“You see, a child would typically weep and pine for days after someone they’ve grown attached to departs, even after just a single day’s acquaintance. But Alice was entirely different. Though it would be no exaggeration to say she was utterly captivated by Dodgson, she displayed not the slightest longing after his departure. Can you fathom the unease I felt? The absence of any tangible distress became, paradoxically, a source of profound dread.”
He spoke as if questioning his own sanity. With good reason—this was an exceedingly strange tale.
“Instead, Alice began to sleep excessively. She had always been fond of slumber, and while they say children benefit from abundant rest, her case was extreme. Whenever I observed her, Alice was perpetually drowsy, retiring when the sun shone and awakening while daylight still prevailed. Finding this suspicious, I secretly pressed her for answers. The truth she ultimately confessed was horrifically shocking.”
The surface of my abandoned teacup trembled with ripples. Lord Liddell’s hands shook visibly atop the desk.
“Alice was meeting Dodgson in her dreams!”
He exclaimed with surprising vigor. I revised my earlier assessment—his voice certainly retained its capacity to reach astonishing volumes.
“I recognize how utterly preposterous this sounds, yet he somehow made it possible. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson had demonstrated his uncanny talents on several occasions, but he was truly something beyond mortal comprehension. The arcane arts he commanded transcended human limitations. I confirmed this repeatedly with Alice. She insisted she was meeting Lewis Carroll, but I immediately recognized this as Charles Lutwidge Dodgson’s nom de plume. Several mannerisms she mimicked matched Dodgson’s with uncanny precision.”
Liddell drew a labored breath.
“I neglected to mention earlier that before discerning his true nature, I briefly engaged in cordial exchanges with Dodgson. Finding charm in that young gentleman, I’d committed to memory certain idiosyncrasies and patterns of speech that only an adult would perceive—details neither captivating to a child nor memorable for any duration. Yet the man inhabiting Alice’s dreams, this Lewis Carroll, was unmistakably Charles Lutwidge Dodgson!”
His hands contorted into a strangling gesture, as if grasping the imaginary neck of Lewis Carroll himself.
“I endeavored ceaselessly to sever their connection. In truth, I employed every conceivable remedy. I consulted cathedral clergy to perform exorcism rituals, corresponded with a questionably eccentric young neurologist named Freud, and even suspended above her bed a dreamcatcher purportedly passed down through Native American traditions. Each week, dubious monks visited the mansion claiming they would expel the spirit possessing her, one by one. Can you comprehend the depths of my desperation?”
I nodded solemnly.
“Without fail, Lewis Carroll would manifest in my dreams. He would invariably mock my feeble countermeasures before seizing Alice before my very eyes. I soon discovered our entire family was experiencing identical nightmares. We all descended into hysteria. Alice’s once-raven hair transformed gradually but unmistakably into vivid blonde with each passing day—a shade resembling neither parent. Our family committed numerous sins during that period. Whenever we beheld her golden locks, it seemed as though Lewis Carroll’s dreadful smile lurked just beyond…”
Liddell fell silent for a considerable interval.
“I resolved to confront the actual Dodgson and, should he deny his involvement, end his life.”
His words profoundly startled me. I hadn’t anticipated he would confess such a shameful intention.
“It was a tempestuous night. Our family had convened to conspire on methods to eliminate Lewis Carroll. Suddenly, we heard a peculiarly low knock at the door—low in height, I mean. Finding this odd, I opened it to discover a boy of perhaps ten years standing outside. He was a comely lad who exuded an ominous aura entirely unsuited to a child.”
Liddell shuddered visibly as if reliving that moment.
“He proclaimed himself an emissary from a secret society called the Golden Dawn. He bewildered my faculties by presenting dozens of esoteric diagrams and occult symbols. I found myself captivated by the arcane knowledge possessed by this youthful figure and the uncanny atmosphere that seemed to draw one in inexorably. I participated in the dawn ritual he proposed—our entire family did. None could refuse; there was simply no alternative. In an instant, he had rendered our entire family his captives.”
Curiously, Liddell appeared more terrified of this odd boy in his recollection than he had been when speaking of Lewis Carroll.
“In Port Meadow, north of Oxford, stands a rather modest hill. Its splendid view makes it a popular picnicking destination, but the descent is treacherously steep—a misstep could result in grievous injury. Though it bears several names, people simply call it the Rabbit Hole due to the abundance of clover growing there.”
He abruptly veered into this seemingly unrelated digression.
Then concluded with stark simplicity:
“Charles Lutwidge Dodgson perished after falling from that place. His death was contentious—suicide or murder, opinions varied. But our family was forever freed from his influence. Whatever sins we committed to achieve this, they were necessary burdens to bear.”
Suddenly, the midday sunlight streaming into the room seemed to dim perceptibly.
“And yet, our family never truly found liberation. Alice, that child… Lewis Carroll’s shadow still lingers about her.”
That night, Marie and I found ourselves at Wolvercote Cemetery in northern Oxford.
Mindful of the departing train schedule from Oldcourt, our visit would necessarily be brief. We quickly located a particular grave and stood before it.
A simple cross marked the final resting place. Untended, wild grasses and weeds sprawled across the mound in tangled profusion. In death as in life, this man who had strived for purity throughout his days humbly accepted only nameless wildflowers upon his grave.
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson January 14, 1885 Aged 28 years
Marie and I each placed a single daisy upon the earth.
“Master.”
Marie turned toward me. Her veil seemed remarkably fitting in this domain of the departed.
“This is who you came to find?”
“Yes.”
My feelings remained decidedly complex.
Lord Liddell had not struck me as dishonest. Though he clearly withheld certain details, he had no reason to fabricate tales about someone already deceased.
His reason for confiding in me stemmed solely from concern for Alice’s welfare. But did that truly render Lewis Carroll a villain?
“Tell me, Marie. If I were to lead you into a forest, keep you wandering all day, and later ask where you had been, how would you respond?”
Marie contemplated my question momentarily.
“I would suggest you were suffering from dementia, sir.”
I shot her a stern look. She hastily amended:
“Or perhaps simply that we had visited the forest.”
“You wouldn’t possibly answer ‘Wonderland’?”
“It wouldn’t strike me as particularly wondrous an experience.”
“Indeed not. Oxford doesn’t even possess a forest within walking distance of the town center.”
Those two had undoubtedly journeyed somewhere, and that excursion had clearly precipitated all subsequent changes. But where precisely had they gone? Had they genuinely tumbled into Wonderland through some rabbit hole?
And with the additional enigma of one physicist and one mathematician who had vanished in London—mentioned by Lord Liddell at our conversation’s end—I, who had come seeking answers, departed burdened with even more questions.
“Master, we must make haste or we’ll miss our train,” Marie cautioned.
“Yes, let’s depart. I doubt we’ll glean anything further by lingering here.”
At Marie’s gentle insistence, I turned away reluctantly from the grave.
We left the cemetery behind, making our way through Oxford’s quiet streets back to the station, where we boarded the train that would return us to London.
This time, mercifully, on a slow but uneventful journey.