The Legacy of the Jabberwock

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I had been reading “M” is for Magic by Neil Gaiman and one of the stories was about a hard boiled detective who was in fact Little Jack Horner and he was investigating whether Humpty-Dumpty fell or was pushed. He had an informant (Cock Robin) that might have disclosed all if he hadn’t been killed. It went on and on weaving a plausible detective story from all of these nursery rhyme characters.

I thought that’s a good idea for a story, what fictional piece am I familiar enough with. The Jabberwocky jumped to mind as I had it memorized since third grade. So the Legacy of the Jabberwock was born. I worked on the premise of: What if the Jabberwock was still alive and someone had a vendetta against it. So I set about to fashion a pastiche in the present day.

 

 

The Legacy of the Jabberwock 

 

The old man was dying and he had this obsession. Since I was the eldest son it was up to me to see this thing to an end. It was that damned Jabberwock that he wanted dead. I’d only seen the thing twice in my fifty years. It was my job to hunt it down and kill it, if I could. The old man wanted its head. What could I do but try my best. The estate was vast, covering nearly a square mile. Most of it was wooded, some so thick that is seemed that daylight couldn’t penetrate it. That was the tulgey wood and that was where the old man had said I’d find it. I tried to talk sense into him and reason with him. Nobody had seen the beast in nearly twenty-five years.

“It must be dead,” I told him.

He was having none of that. With a great effort he raised a gnarled hand and pointed at the sword above the mantel.

“You’ll need that,” he said. “It was made for your great great uncle Roderick. It’s a vorpal sword. It’s the only thing that will slay the Jabberwock.”

I stood on a chair and hefted down the sword.

“This thing must weigh forty pounds. I can’t use this. I’m just as likely to cut off my leg as kill the Jabberwock.”

He gave me that fish-eyed stare that he used when I did something that displeased him.

“If you don’t use it, the Jabberwock will certainly kill you.” he said with a slight grin.”

“I’ll take it, but I’m also taking my service revolver.” I said.

So it was that I found myself in the tulgey wood with a forty pound sword, a service revolver and a column of sweat rolling down my back. I’d been out there since the break of day and now it was nearly two o’clock. There had been no sign of the Jabberwock, no tracks, no scat, no nothing. It must be dead like I told the old man, but if I didn’t bring him proof he would cut me out of the will with a few swipes of his pen. I found a spot of shade beneath a tumtum tree and had a drink from my canteen. I pondered my life without my father’s fortune. I daydreamed of lopping off the creature’s head and presenting it to the old man. I was lost in these thoughts when I heard a burbling noise. I spun around and there it was, the Jabberwock just as I remembered it. Its eyes of flame were fixed on my own. It didn’t charge at me, but just seem to take me in. Its gaze lingered on the vorpal sword as if it knew what it was. I raised the sword as high above my head as possible and charged at the monster. It likewise began to charge at me. Just as we were about to clash, I blacked out.

When I awoke I was amazed to still be alive. I was in the hospital and there was a man in safari gear sitting by my bed. My head was throbbing as if I’d been out drinking the night before. The safari-clad man asked me if there was anything he could do for me. I told him that a couple of aspirin and some water would be great. He went off and fetched me the aspirin and water. I took them and lay my head back down on the pillow and drifted off to sleep. I kept having nightmares about the Jabberwock and finally woke up with a start. He was still sitting there in his sand-colored fatigues and a pith helmet.

“I guess you are wondering what happened back there. By the way my name is Nigel.”

We shook hands and I nodded for him to go on.

“You see there is a group of us who work for the Nature Conservancy and we’ve been stalking the Jabberwock for years. It was last seen about twelve years ago on your family estate. We were on the hunt today. We saw the Jabberwock, and then you started to attack it. We couldn’t let that happen. We shot you and the beast with tranquilizer darts. It took seven darts to bring the Jabberwock down, but only one for you. That would account for your throbbing headache; it’s the after-effects of the drug. The Jabberwock is on the endangered species list. We think this is the last one of its kind. So you see we saved you a ton of grief by not letting you kill it.”

I nodded dumbly trying to take all of this in.

“Where is it now?” I asked.

“We have it locked up here on the compound in a makeshift cage until we can have something built for transport.”

So this was a field hospital, not a real one. Just then another thought came to me.

“Where’s my sword? It’s a family heirloom and my father would disinherit me if I lost it.”

“Not to worry.” said Nigel. “It is safely tucked under your bed.”

“When can I leave?”

“The medics say another couple of hours before the tranquilizers totally leave your system. Then we’ll arrange transport back for you.”

“Can I see the Jabberwock before I leave?” 

            Nigel paused for a moment then said, “I think that can be arranged, we are keeping it pretty well sedated but a quick look shouldn’t hurt anything.”

A couple of hours later I was in front of the makeshift cage. It was more of a garage with a roll up grate instead of a door. The inside walls had been reinforced with plywood and access to the beast was through a man-sized door on the side. I stood there and stared at my would-be foe. It raised its huge head a few inches from the floor and stared back at me. The flames in its eyes had nearly gone out. As I stared I began to hear a voice in my head. It was the voice of the Jabberwock.

“I wish that the steel of your sword had taken my life because I have been condemned to death by these do-gooders. They think they are saving me, but I cannot live in captivity. Please come back and fulfill your quest and put me out of my misery. I am old even by my standards. You would consider me ancient. There used to be more of us, but my mate died nearly a hundred years ago. I am the last of my generation, but there is hope for the next generation. You see Jabberwockies lay eggs somewhat like a turtle. They are thick and hardy and take a long time to hatch, at least in human years. I laid the last batch just after my mate died, so by my calculations the hatchlings should emerge in nine or ten years. I would have liked to be around to see that. Please come and finish your task, I will not resist. All I ask is that you keep these idiots in the dark about the hatchlings. We are peaceable creatures that have been judged unfairly throughout history.”

After I had gotten over the initial shock of the Jabberwock talking to me inside my head, I realized it was telepathy. Not knowing if I could communicate back, I just nodded my head and hoped it would understand.

Nigel drove me back to the estate. It was half past nine when I reported back to the old man. I told him of the day’s events. I told him everything, except the part about the Jabberwock talking to me. He would have thought I was mad. I explained that I’d been up since before daylight and I’d had a hard day and was going to bed. Before I did I mapped out a plan for the next evening and the old man concurred. Although he had originally wanted the head, I didn’t think it was possible to get it out without being caught. We compromised on a picture. He wanted a Polaroid, “none of them new fangled digital pictures that you can change every which way.” I argued that you can’t find a Polaroid camera anywhere much less the film.

“Look in the study in the bottom desk drawer. You’ll find a camera. In the cabinet behind the desk is a stock pile of film. Test it before you go.”

The next evening I left the house with the vorpal sword, a Polaroid camera and a pair of night vision goggles (Lord knows where he got them from). I had combat boots, a dark sweat suit, and wool cap. I’d blackened my face and wrapped the gleaming sword in a dark scarf. I drove to a spot that was about half a kilometer from the compound and parked the Land Rover on an overgrown lane off the road. I headed cross country toward the compound. Everything was shades of green through the goggles, but with the little bit of moonlight coming through the trees, I could see just fine.

It took nearly an hour to cross the distance from the Land Rover to the compound. By now it was close to midnight and everything was still. I made my way to the Jabberwock and it raised its head to acknowledge me. I crept in through the side door and there I was right next to the fearsome creature. I stood there and pity welled up inside of me. I was not a killer. I didn’t even like to go hunting. I thought maybe I could just set it free. The Jabberwock must have understood what I was thinking because I saw it shake its massive head. Then I heard in my own head.

“You must end it here. If you were to free me, they would continue to hunt me forever more. If I die here then ‘the last of the Jabberwock’ will be gone. They will stop looking for us and maybe we will pass into obscurity once more.”

The Jabberwock stretched out his long neck and rested his head on the floor as if to say do it now and be quick about it. I raised the sword, and my vision blurred from the tears that had formed. I wavered in my resolve. Then I heard a blast in my head.

“DO IT!”

The sword came down and sliced through its neck without the slightest hesitation. Then the strangest thing happened, the blade dissolved leaving me holding only the hilt. I pulled out the camera and took a picture of the hideous sight and then a second for good measure. I crept out of the cage and made my way back to the Land Rover.

It was one-thirty before I got back to the estate and burst into the old man’s room. Damn his sleep, he wanted this done. I flung the pictures at him and left. Whether the excitement was too much for him or it was just his time, I’ll never know. He died that evening in his sleep. The doctor said he had a peaceful smile when he found him in the morning.

I am now the master of the house. My children are grown and my grandchildren roam the grounds on their occasional visits. Sometimes the grandchildren come back from the tulgey woods with the most fantastic stories about playing with the Jabberwockies. Their parents just indulge them, but I hang on every word.