Rabbit Whitest

• Tasha Gacutan, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2016

We had not been prepared.
The White Rabbit had never been a bad omen. That was the worst part, perhaps. If it had been a black cat or a raven, people would have noticed immediately, I am sure. But nature, contrary to popular belief, does not dance to the tune of stories. That shadowless beast went paw in paw with the Black Hare, March, who everyone thought had been tamed by the Hatter, and together they carried out the orders of the Exile - the shadowless, cursed, fading Cheshire Cat.
I believe she wanted shadows - shadows to sustain her and save her before she faded away for good. The will to live is strong even in worms, and the Cat’s will could bend iron and melt rock.
Perhaps it could have ended with the Caterpillar Man, sitting on his mushroom and smoking the fumes of knowledge. But knowledge is power, and power is dangerous - too much of it will kill you, or worse. And it is whispered now, in the gloaming of the Reaper’s scythe, that he had taken too much, listened too little, and that the snickersnack of the vorpal blade was the last sound he heard before madness claimed him with a smile.
The mice had spread news of the girl’s arrival, I recall, but they were frivolous creatures, and who listened to someone who you could squish underfoot? The Dormouse, chief of mice, tried mustering his forces at the last moment, but it was the last moment, after all, and the White Rabbit knew everything, everything, about being late.
The Hatter, with his clockwork capes and gear-sprung masks and maddening visions of the future, warned the Scarlet Queen. It worked, or so it seemed at the start, and cries of “Off with her head!” bellowed long and true through the night.
But the girl was eldritch - gifted by the Cat with insatiable bloodlust and strange, otherworldly powers. She ate flesh and drank blood, and grew stronger, and stronger, and stronger. And all the while, a smile like the crescent moon hung behind the glint of her eyes.
The Jubjub birds, the bandersnatches, even the Jabberwocky - all fell to her fickle blade, and their hearts were found strung up like lights. Their corpses cast no shadow. The people clamoured for the help of the Four Monarchs, but the Stygian King had been exiled long ago, the Silvered Empress was wasting with the plague and the Snowy Prince had been murdered in his bed.
The Scarlet Queen fought back. But rats will fight back in a corner, and this makes no difference at all to the swipe of the cat’s claw.
They will come for me - even now, I can hear their shadow-stealing army march the flagstones into the ground. I tremble, oh how I tremble, and in my twilight moments I hold dearly onto the advice of storytellers everywhere.
Begin at the beginning, and go on till you reach the end. Then stop.