Humpty Dumpty did, indeed, sit on the side of the wall nestled in a small clearing. It was unmistakably him. He looked like every drawing of the character Brett ever saw in Mother Goose books. An egg with black around its rim like thinning hair and a rumpled blue Victorian-style suit wrapped around his middle perched on the edge of the wall. His little legs wobbled here and there, sometimes digging the heels of his oxfords into the bricks.
“My god,” Brett muttered, “he does look just like an egg.”
Charles gulped and ducked under his legs. “Do you think he'll fall?”
“You know,” Humpty finally said in a familiar nasal whine, “it's very provoking to be called an egg. Very!”
“Well, we can't help what you look like, sir!” Brett snapped. He reminded her a lot of Richard Deacon, a grouchy and balding actor who sometimes sat in the first seat next to her. He acted a lot like Humpty, too, with a shiny head and a sour yolk in his whipped white.
Charles tried to smooth his ruffled shell. “We only said you looked like an egg, sir. Some eggs can be very pretty. Why, some of the eggs I see at tea time are among the loveliest things...”
“Some people,” snapped Humpty-Deacon, “have no more sense than a baby!”
“Sir,” Charles rambled, “we're sorry you're upset. You really don't have to rock like that. Can we get you anything to make you feel better?”
Brett gulped. “Um, Mr. Deacon...Humpty...the last thing you need is to have a great fall. We don't know where all the king's horses and all the king’s men are, and they couldn't put you back together again in the poem!” She made a face and added to herself, “and that last line was always too long anyway.”
“Don't stand there yammering all day,” grumbled Humpty-Deacon. “Just state your names and business.”
Charles bowed with a sweep of his top hat. “Charles the Hatter, messenger to the Queen Betty, at your service.”
“Brett Somers. We're looking for...”
“It's a stupid enough name,” Humpty-Deacon snapped. “What does it mean?”
“Does a name always have to mean something?” Brett added doubtfully.
“Of course!” Humpty-Deacon barked. “My name means the shape I am, and a good, handsome shape it is, too. Your name could mean any shape at all.”
“Why do you sit out here all alone?” asked Charles quickly, hoping to avert an argument.
“Because there's no one out with me!” Humpty-Deacon declared triumphantly. “That was easy. Ask me another.”
“Don't you think you'd be safer on the ground?” Charles fussed. “That is an awfully high wall.”
“Your riddles are too easy.” Humpty-Deacon snorted. “Of course, I don't think I'd be better off on the ground. If I ever fell off – and that's a big if – the Red King promised me with his own mouth to send...”
She frowned. “We know he promised he'd send all the king's horses and all the king's men, but can you trust him? Do you really think they could put you back together again? From what I've seen, he's more likely to sweep you out in the trash or turn you into an ordinary egg.”
The big bald egg narrowed its eyes. “How did you know that? Have you been listening at keyholes?”
“It's in a poem!” Charles assured him. “We know it in Wonderland, too.”
“In that case,” Humpty-Deacon went on, “why don't I change the subject? What's your ages?”
Brett coughed. “Err, let's say I'm not as old as I look.”
“I'm not afraid of my age!” Charles shot back. “I turned 45 my last un-birthday.”
“Unbirthday?” Brett raised an eyebrow. “Should I even ask what that is?”
Deacon managed to look snooty even when raising an eyebrow. “How does she not know what an unbirthday is, Hatter?”
“I'm new here,” Brett admitted. “And I really prefer regular birthdays. They're more special because you only get them once a year.”
“Shows what you know,” grumped Deacon. “If you had an unbirthday, you'd get gifts the whole rest of the year. After all, you only have one birthday, but 364 days in a year.”
“It wouldn't be as much fun that way.” She sighed. “You do seem to have a propensity for making up long words. There's no such word as 'unbirthday.'”
Charles rolled his eyes. “You're not one to talk, Susan, considering the vocabulary you just slung at him!”
Deacon ignored both of them. “When I use a word, it means what I want it to mean.”
“You know,” Brett went on, “this afternoon, before I came here, I read a poem about the Jabberwock. Frankly, I can't make heads or tails of it. It must have something to do with the monsters that are supposed to live in Limbo...” She repeated the first stanza, hoping that she got the words right. It had been a very long time since she'd been above ground! It seemed to her like years.
“Well,” the egg snorted, “that's easy as vinegar pie. 'Brillig' means four in the morning, when people used to boil things. 'Slithy' is a combination of slimy and lithe. It can slide around with the greatest of ease, basically. Mome raths, toves, and borogroves are monsters in Limbo who live in the same general area as the Jabberwock. 'Gyre' means to go round and round like a gyroscope, gimble is to make holes, and mimsy is to be flimsy and miserable. 'The wabe' is the grass around a sundial. 'Outgrabing' is somewhere between a bellow and a whistle.”
“Well,” Charles began, “thank you for explaining that, but we really need to be getting along. By the way, how do we find the path out of here?”
“Oh, that's as easy as falling off a wall.” Humpty-Deacon closed his eyes and pointed behind him. “Just go over this wall and through the woods. The White Knight and the protectors of the forest will show you the way.”
“But...” Brett started.
Humpty-Deacon closed his eyes. “That is all.” No amount of poking, prodding, or gentle shaking could make him talk again.
“Thank you, sir,” Charles began with a very fake smile. “Good-bye, until we meet again!”
“I shouldn't imagine I'd remember you if we did meet again,” Deacon whined. “You two have faces that are exactly like all the others. If you had ears on your chin or eyes on your toes, then maybe you'd be memorable.” He then closed his eyes and proceeded to ignore them, even as they managed to scramble over the wall and down the dirt path he'd indicated.
“Well,” growled Brett as she stomped past the tall trees and waving wildflowers, “of all the...the...unsatisfactory...people! I never did like the real Deacon, but that one was positively rude!”
Charles shrugged and sipped his tea again. “At least he helped us make the next jump. Now we just need to figure out how to get to the last square.”
“We need Dickie for that.” She sighed. “And he's gone. Maybe we ought to go back to...” She wasn't able to finish before a tremendous crash shook the forest from end to end.
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