"Why do you kill?" the elder asked, whittling away at a long stick.

The child was quiet, unresponsive and reluctant, but the elder was patient, wise. She could wait all day if she had to.

The younger opened her mouth only to release a choked sound. Closing it, she clenched and unclenched her hands.

Her hands shook as she reached toward the white wall before her. The elder did nothing but watch her move. Red strokes suddenly became words:

"A day without blood is like a week without water,"

"Is that not the same thing to a human, or are humans just that odd?"

The younger was once again unresponsive.

The elder suddenly stopped her whittling. The knife was tossed to the side, disappearing like it was never solid, just dust.

That long stick now resembled a cane. There was a soft clack as it was placed on the ground. The elder used it to push herself up from the chair. Her bones creaked, and she walked stiffly and unbalanced toward the child.

"Your name?"

It was so simple, unlike the first two, that she answered in her soft voice, "Samantha Wallton."

Then the elder laughed. It sounded like scratching a chalkboard. "Young one," she began, "that's just too known now." The child just nodded.

"In my language, the word 'dajira' means 'mind'. How does that sound?"

The girl could only laugh.

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."



"Curiouser and curiouser!"