Read Online After Alice by Gregory Maguire - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gregory Maguire
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cubby. Ada felt very small indeed. But agile, like a mouse, not like a broken toy lost under the settee. Surely she could worry her way through that door somehow? It seemed to be the only exit.
She scurried forward and tried the knob again, in case it had changed its mind and wanted to open. It did not. But this time she thought to look through the keyhole.
What began as undifferentiated sheen organized itself into patches of green and blue. A lawn of some sort, a sky. A wall of topiary hedge clipped into the shapes of domesticated hens, as far as Ada could tell. Along came the Ace of Spades with the basket containing Rosa Rugosa, who was trailing her roots through the grass in a most unladylike display. Ada cupped her hands around the keyhole and called, âHallo, over here! Open the door!â But the Ace of Spades, if he even heard Ada, kept traipsing. His head was down, possibly to find a burying plot for Rosa.
Until now, Ada had been drifting through this unusual day with disregard for what sheâd left behind and for what might lie ahead. Had it occurred to her to ask the questionâ what is this adventure like? âÂshe might have concluded that her visit seemed like a story or a dream. In any case, it didnât correspond to life as she had known it so far.
A story in a book has its own intentions, even if unknowable to the virgin reader, who just lollops along at her own pace regardless of the authorâs strategies, and gets where she will. After all, a book can be set aside for weeks, or for good. (Burned in the grate.) Alternatively, a story can be adored for centuries. But it cannot be derailed. A plot, whether abandoned by a reader or pursued rapturously, remains itself, and gets where it is headed even if nobody is looking. It is progressive and inevitable as the seasons. Winter still comes after autumn though you may have died over the summer.
As for dreams, they are powered by urgent desire, even if that desire is only to escape the quotidian. Ada, who lived with a sense of disappointment and failure, thanks to her misshapen form, suffered from a flat dream-Âlife, one that seemed poorly differentiated from her waking hours. As a stolid child, her dreams were of static things, almost still-Âlifes: a lump of cheddar on a board, a goat roped to a tinkerâs cart, a curving road.
Now, however, Ada no longer felt like the passive observer of an unfolding fiction or of a dream daguerreotype. Something new rose in her, a thrill of ambition. She had to get into that garden. She would get into that garden. She didnât know why she felt so strongly about it. Usually she didnât much care for gardens. The garden at the Vicarage was a mess, what with the monkey-Âpuzzle tree needing pruning and the orange hawkbit colonizing the verge. But this garden looked entrancing, something like a college garden glimpsed through forbidding gates. Such Oxford gardens would remain off-Âlimits to the likes of Ada, both for her gender and for her crab-Âgaited form. And probably for her latent sinfulness. All the more important that she gain access to this paradise in the keyhole.
She peered again. Beyond the door, the lawn was shorn and rolled to Pythagorean precision. The clouds were perfect, neither too many nor histrionic. As she watched hungrily, the cumuli began sliding down the side of the world and changing places with the lawn. This proved disconcerting, like a picture in a book turned upside down. Why, there was the Ace of Spades digging a hole in the lawn-Âsky, and stuffing Rosa Rugosa root-Âfirst into the green-Âfringed heaven hovering over a blue eternal sky-Âsea. It was amusing to see the Ace of Spades sprinkle water upward. âThis is a day Iâm having,â said Ada to herself.
âNo, itâs not,â said a voice behind her. âItâs a day Iâm having. Youâre only decoration. A sort of mousy, apprentice Erinys detached from
She scurried forward and tried the knob again, in case it had changed its mind and wanted to open. It did not. But this time she thought to look through the keyhole.
What began as undifferentiated sheen organized itself into patches of green and blue. A lawn of some sort, a sky. A wall of topiary hedge clipped into the shapes of domesticated hens, as far as Ada could tell. Along came the Ace of Spades with the basket containing Rosa Rugosa, who was trailing her roots through the grass in a most unladylike display. Ada cupped her hands around the keyhole and called, âHallo, over here! Open the door!â But the Ace of Spades, if he even heard Ada, kept traipsing. His head was down, possibly to find a burying plot for Rosa.
Until now, Ada had been drifting through this unusual day with disregard for what sheâd left behind and for what might lie ahead. Had it occurred to her to ask the questionâ what is this adventure like? âÂshe might have concluded that her visit seemed like a story or a dream. In any case, it didnât correspond to life as she had known it so far.
A story in a book has its own intentions, even if unknowable to the virgin reader, who just lollops along at her own pace regardless of the authorâs strategies, and gets where she will. After all, a book can be set aside for weeks, or for good. (Burned in the grate.) Alternatively, a story can be adored for centuries. But it cannot be derailed. A plot, whether abandoned by a reader or pursued rapturously, remains itself, and gets where it is headed even if nobody is looking. It is progressive and inevitable as the seasons. Winter still comes after autumn though you may have died over the summer.
As for dreams, they are powered by urgent desire, even if that desire is only to escape the quotidian. Ada, who lived with a sense of disappointment and failure, thanks to her misshapen form, suffered from a flat dream-Âlife, one that seemed poorly differentiated from her waking hours. As a stolid child, her dreams were of static things, almost still-Âlifes: a lump of cheddar on a board, a goat roped to a tinkerâs cart, a curving road.
Now, however, Ada no longer felt like the passive observer of an unfolding fiction or of a dream daguerreotype. Something new rose in her, a thrill of ambition. She had to get into that garden. She would get into that garden. She didnât know why she felt so strongly about it. Usually she didnât much care for gardens. The garden at the Vicarage was a mess, what with the monkey-Âpuzzle tree needing pruning and the orange hawkbit colonizing the verge. But this garden looked entrancing, something like a college garden glimpsed through forbidding gates. Such Oxford gardens would remain off-Âlimits to the likes of Ada, both for her gender and for her crab-Âgaited form. And probably for her latent sinfulness. All the more important that she gain access to this paradise in the keyhole.
She peered again. Beyond the door, the lawn was shorn and rolled to Pythagorean precision. The clouds were perfect, neither too many nor histrionic. As she watched hungrily, the cumuli began sliding down the side of the world and changing places with the lawn. This proved disconcerting, like a picture in a book turned upside down. Why, there was the Ace of Spades digging a hole in the lawn-Âsky, and stuffing Rosa Rugosa root-Âfirst into the green-Âfringed heaven hovering over a blue eternal sky-Âsea. It was amusing to see the Ace of Spades sprinkle water upward. âThis is a day Iâm having,â said Ada to herself.
âNo, itâs not,â said a voice behind her. âItâs a day Iâm having. Youâre only decoration. A sort of mousy, apprentice Erinys detached from
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