From the Dark Side: Excerpt from Jim Ryan’s “The Looking Glass at Lughnasa”

Check out an excerpt from author/podcaster Jim Ryan’s contribution to the From the Dark Side charity anthology, “The Looking Glass at Lughnasa.” Be sure to check it out and come back tomorrow for another excerpt from an amazing author. Copies of From the Dark Side go on sale Friday, July 9.

The Looking Glass at Lughnasa

Smoke curtained the room, curling all over it and producing a light, laughing fog. Eastern furniture littered the floor — velvet pillows, futons, legless couches that looked like mushrooms — all in a veritable rainbow of colors. There were also the usual curtained bunk beds for those who wished to remain more discreet. A full-length mirror hung on the far wall to the left of a dressing table bedecked with various oils and perfumes. A few patrons milled about the room, laughing and chatting, while the rest were draped over the floor and furniture like dirty linens. The smoke in the room poured forth from more than a dozen sources near to the–music came wafting in from another room beyond as the smells of several different herbs, oils and chemicals came to play with my olfactory sense.

Dodgson was seated by himself on a couple of large, red throw pillows, drawing breath from a large hookah. He was a well-kempt, slightly mousy man with neat brown hair and a kind face which currently seemed to have little connection with the rest of his body—its expression was a glazed one. He was not in the habit of smoking opium on too regular a basis, but at times of stress, he’d been known to come down to London to partake from time to time. Perhaps someone’s parents had misunderstood his friendly disposition and complained again about him talking to their children. A bit ironic, really, as it was usually the children that sought HIM out. Poor misunderstood fellow.

I went over and sat down next to him, removing my white gloves in case I’d need to partake of his pipe. Alcohol served as the best focus for me, I’d found, but most drugs that slowed the heart seemed to do just as well.

“Charles,” I said, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

He looked over at me wearily. “Who are you?” he whispered haltingly. I studied his face carefully. There was no recognition in his eyes, but no other particular expression either. Then, after a moment, a slow smile started to creep into his features and I realized that he was referencing that story of his again. Caterpillar, indeed.

“Yes, yes, you’ve already told me that one.”

He extended his hand, which I met halfway with mine. “Good to see you, my dear fellow,” he said strenuously, stretching as though waking up from a long slumber. “Nice to see that you finally took me up on my offer to come and join me here.” He wasn’t stuttering as he normally did, which was most likely a result of the opium. He pulled a second pipe extension from the hookah and brandished it in my direction.

“In a moment, thanks,” I said. Best to keep a clear head until the business was out of the way. “First, I need to ask something. A friend of mine saw you the other night. He said you were in a bar back in Oxford prattling on about a looking glass and faeries and all that. Have you started a new batch of stories or something?”

“Mmm…” he leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, uncomfortably. “I’ve been having the dreams again. Probably because of this whole publishing nonsense. You know they had to pull my book?”

“Yes, Charles, you told me all about that. It’ll be out again next year, though, won’t it?”

“Maybe…. Or maybe the world will end at midnight. No idea…”

I adjusted my position so that he could see me better. “Charles. What are these dreams you’re talking about?”

“The Hatter. He keeps coming back. Talking to me.” His brows began to knit and he looked worried.