The Radcliffe Asylum
W aking up the Pillar is a daunting task.
At one point he opens his eyes and pulls me closer and starts to dance a Caucus Race dance, one I know he is fond of. But when I talk to him, I realize he is kind of sleep walking. I push him away, suddenly conflicted about being so close to him.
It’s hard to even think about him right now. Is he evil? Is he good? Is he my father, or is he my number one nightmare in life? All I know is that he knows how to escape the asylum. A glance at the timer on BBC News shows me we have only ten hours left before the police barge in — or before we have to shut ourselves inside.
“I’m worried he is playing games.” Tom points at the Pillar. “What if he is faking his sleep?”
“I don’t see the point of that,” I tell him. “We’ve already concluded he isn’t the one who’s invited us here.”
“It doesn’t prove he is on our side, though.”
“I know. Stop reminding me. If I search my soul, I may hate him more than you can imagine. Right now, he is our only hope of escaping this place.”
Tom takes my words and leaves the cell. A minute later he arrives with his guards carrying buckets of ice cold water. “Time to give the professor a wakeup call.”
The guards repeatedly splash the Pillar with water. None of it wakes him up. The best result we get is the Pillar sneezing, a thin, frail, and cute sneeze, then he goes back to sleep.
“He is faking it,” Tom says. “Who doesn’t wake up from ice cold water?”
“I found something!” The March Hare arrives panting, interrupting our attempts to wake up the Pillar.
“On the walls?” I ask.
“Indeed,” the March says. “First of all, the scribbling is evident in almost every cell in the asylum. Same words, same gibberish, but it all tells the story about her, presumably you, Alice, and Him, and how you joined him to find his weakness.”
“We already know that, March,” I say. “Tell me something new.”
“All the writing was done by the same person,” the March says.
“That’s impossible,” Tom says. “I don’t know of a single patient who’s been to every cell in my asylum.”
“Maybe you don’t know much about your asylum,” I tell him. “The Pillar has proven that already. Who is that same person who wrote the message, March?”
“All the writing is signed by someone who calls himself Patient 14.”
“Oh, not again.” Tom waves a trembling hand in the air.
“You know who that is?” I ask.
“It’s all a myth, Alice,” Tom says. “Just like the writing. It’s some abracadabra nonsense written by the Mushroomers.”
“Tom!” I interrupt. “It’s time to tell me everything you know about this Patient 14.”