TOM QUADRANGLE IN CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD UNIVERSITY, JANUARY 14TH, 1862
It's still raining heavily. A darker shade hovers over the Victorian atmosphere. The clouds are gray and cruel in the absence of the sun, blocked by the dirty smog and smoke all over this world. A world that reeks of pollution and stink. Poverty and homelessness overrule this not-so-picturesque vision of English Victorian times before me.
I snake through the crowd, all the way outside the university. I am outside at St. Aldates. Deeper into Oxford, I see hordes of homeless people shading themselves with newspapers from the heavy rain. Coughs and vomits are heard and seen everywhere as if there's been a disease. Young children with tattered clothes and bandaged hands, smitten with dirt, walk all around me. All they ask for is money. A penny. A shilling. Even a bronze half-shilling with the drawing of Queen Victoria upon it.
If they're not asking for money, they are begging for food, a loaf of bread, a single egg, or a potato, with open mouths. Some even beg for a whiff of salt or a sip of clean water.
An old man with a stick shoos a few kids away. "Go back to London, you filthy rotten beggars!" he grunts before he trips to the floor himself. He is as weak as everyone else, upset that they're begging for his share of meals.
People don't seem to notice me.
Most people are conspicuously shorter than usual. Maybe they're not really shorter—their backs are bent over from poverty, a lack of nutrition and shelter.
I keep stepping on the muddy earth, realizing that what was Wonderland a few breaths ago has turned into a nightmare of older times.
Victorian times.
It looks like I am in a factually real point in history. Did I travel back in time?
I realize I can just open my eyes and escape this vision. But I don't. I want to understand why I am having it.
Is this why January the 14th is so important? My hands crawl to the key at the end of the necklace Lewis gave me last time. One of the six keys to open Wonderland doors, he said.
I stop in my place and gaze ahead, only to see Lewis Carroll walking in a haze. He is wearing a priest's outfit, and a pile of papers is tucked under his armpit. A tattered umbrella is held loosely in his other hand before some kids steal it and run away, hitting the old man with it.
Lewis doesn't care. He tucks his hands into his pockets and pulls out a fistful of breadcrumbs. He offers them to the homeless children. The children circle him like ants around a huge insect they'd just trapped. The kids snatch the bread and then knock Lewis to the floor, the papers of his manuscript scattering in the air. They begin hitting him, asking him for money, but he is not fighting back, astonished by their aggressive acts. They steal his watch and his wallet and rid him of his hat.
I run toward him. They have left him half-naked. He seems to be the only one who sees me.
"Lewis," I yelp. "What's going on?"
"I couldn't save them, Alice," he cries in the rain. "I was too late. Couldn't save them."
"Save who? I don't understand," I say as a few kids suddenly are aware of my existence.
"I—I tried," he hiccups. "Th-those p-poor children," Lewis stutters.
I also realize my time in this vision is short. I'm exposed entirely to the children, and they are approaching. They'll rip me of my asylum's nightgown for sure and see if I have any bread or money.
"Run, Alice," Lewis demands but holds to my hand for one last time. "Never tell anyone that I couldn't save them!"
I don't understand, but I have slid my hand away and am already running from the sinister Victorian kids.
Suddenly, my head hits something, and my lips swell as if I have been punched in the face by a train.
My eyes flip open as my vision phases out, back into the uninteresting real world. As I regain my balance and momentum, I realize I've hit the garden's wall.
"This can't be," I whisper to myself. "I had to run from the kids, but I had to save Lewis. What was that about? Who are they, the people he could not help?"
I close my eyes deliberately again, wishing to re-enter the vision. It's not there anymore. I don't know how this works.
I stand, helpless and imprisoned in the choking arms of these walls of the asylum. Either I am mad beyond all madness, or I can travel through time. Either I was right about forgetting about what happened to me last week, or it's a terrible mistake.
What did Lewis mean? I couldn't save them, Alice.