He does have to. With the aeons-old cavern falling to pieces behind him, he makes his way to confront Paul Neville and the boy who has become a god.
Miranda Pelham is starting to forget who she is. Some of the time she is aware that she is being carried but, much more of the time, and increasingly so, she is certain she is staring up at a cold, grey, marble stone, sealing her in her coffin.
You can’t be dead yet, she muses, your arm still hurts. And anyway, there’s no room in death for the Doctor. If anyone had been chosen to represent life in its most energetic form, it would be this manic bohemian with his buoyant hair and lunatic manners.
He represents the only colour in her increasingly small and grey universe. What the hell good is she going to be anyway?
Fear wants her. It really wants her, burning its way through her skull and down into her stomach. A cold, sharp fire that never lets go. She is going to die – the tree and the black bird perched on this hilltop, the eternal nothingness. Feeling the Doctor’s arms gripping her, she wants him to help, wants him to make everything better. If anyone can cheat death it’s him, she’s sure he’s done it for himself. Why can’t he do it for her? Because when it comes to death, you’re on your own.
She thinks of the black nothing waiting for her ( that is going to happen and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it, whispers a dry, dusty voice) and the ice freezes her solid.
And then something, some impulse, awakens inside her.
It’s been buried deep one hell of a long time, so deep she’d forgotten she’d ever had it. Now it has woken up, perhaps stirring in Hopkins’s torture chamber; she can feel its warmth. What it is, is a refusal to go quietly.
For what seems like her entire adult life, she has been threatened, criticised, ordered, attacked and scared. Well, no more. She has had enough. Sod you Paul Neville, sod you Robert Hopkins, sod the lot of you.
She realises the Doctor is carrying her. The caverns are booming with explosions of some kind. She opens her eyes and feels free for the first time in thirty years.
‘You can let me down, Doctor,’ she says. He gapes in surprise. Her legs feel strong as they touch the ground once more. She ignores the pain in her arm, and the blood. ‘I’ve got something to finish that I should never have started.’
‘That’s my line,’ he replies in astonishment.
She strides along the tunnel, following its upward slope, leaving the Doctor behind.
Only when he doesn’t follow at all does she turn, her breast full of grit and determination. ‘Well?’ she demands.
The Doctor puts his hands in his pockets. ‘Well, I’m so glad you’re feeling better,’ he says, almost regretfully. ‘But that’s the way we came.’
Chapter Fourteen
The old woman is dead.
She, Miranda Pelham, died in the snow, on her way back to the inn, her story uncompleted. Ponch, the last listener, had submitted to her final wish and carried her to the Janua Foris, forgetting to make the sign of vigilance as he set her down on a table. Why she had wished to be brought back to this place, he cannot imagine. He had tried to tell her that once the others of his settlement knew of her death, they would descend on her corpse like jackal-birds. She had just smiled in that mysterious way of hers.
‘This body is a mere shell,’ she had replied. ‘A way station.
Don’t worry about what will happen to me. You know what you have got to do.’
With that, she had closed her eyes and fallen into a snowdrift. Ponch had watched as life left her. Her skin so pale, papery and white as the thin chest ceased its fragile movement. He couldn’t resist touching her face and had been surprised at how warm it still felt.
Much to his amazement, Ponch does know what he’s got to do.
He walks around the growing town for a while, watching as his companions argue and fight and rob each other. He is so tired of this life. Even his own hard-gained, once-treasured furs are now revealed as nothing but shabby, rotten hides.
Why does he have to collect them for these unknowable guild sleds? What does whoever is inside do with them?
He cannot help returning to the inn. Only an hour has passed since he left it but already the scavengers have done their work. She is gone – clothing, flesh, bones; nothing remains. Nothing is wasted here.
As time passes, Ponch cannot concentrate on his work. The feeble orange autumn drags on. Oh, he helps Ofrin, Tavron and the others because they will kill him if he does not. He digs the pits, scrapes the stinking hides, soaks them down, spreads them with dung and stripped bark. He melts snow and carries bucket after bucket after bucket of water for the endless boiling. He covers this year’s skins with earth, and hauls the previous year’s hides, now tanned leather, from their mounds. Ready for transportation to the sleds. Ready for that food and the little bags of coins left in shabby sacks for those strong enough to take them. All the time he is wondering why.
The story has worked on him
He believes now that it is about seeing things, seeing the world around you, the smallness you create for yourself. The Doctor and Romana and Neville and Hopkins and Huvan and the others, they all have to force themselves to look beyond their own needs. The ones that make it to the end are the ones with the courage to search for a wider... a wider... what did the old woman call it?... perspective.
One day, a cold morning in this endless cycle, Ponch makes up his mind to go into the mountains. There is something there he needs to see.
He is aware that Ofrin will attempt to prevent this desertion. He anticipates this, so the night before he leaves, he creeps up on the giant and splits his skull with an axe.
Ponch returns to the place where he buried his pony all those weeks ago. He carves enough meat from its sad old bones to last him a fortnight. If he hasn’t found what he is looking for by then, he will be dead.
As he walks up into the foothills, he thinks about the old woman’s story, about how it must have ended.
The three groups – that mad Neville with his idiot boy and Romana, the vengeful Hopkins and Mr Redfearn, and finally the Doctor, desperately wanting to reverse the wrong he has done, with the wounded and bleeding Pelham, the instigator of the entire business.
Ponch cannot fully comprehend what it is all about, but is aware that there is some kind of symmetry here, three points merging to create a whole, all converging on this mysterious gateway of the Old Ones. The tomb of Valdemar.
How does it end? The final riddle, a riddle he must solve, for it feels like the key to his own life, to his whole existence.
Why couldn’t she just have told him?
Where he wants to get to is not far, but it will take him a week. He knows the others will come looking for him and he must stay out of sight. He has broken a code, the only code they live by – that no one deserts; everyone must stay in the township after summer’s call. You may get yourself killed in a brawl over a crust of bread when you’re there, that’s perfectly all right, but you can never, ever leave. Clearly, this rare and astonishing pact of communal agreement exists to guarantee mutual survival. If the hides are not delivered, the guild sleds might wipe out everyone instead of the annual few whom the guild, in its obscure wisdom, decides has come in under quota. Another stupid thing he has never thought about before.
How does it end?
The question pursues him through the scrubby tundra.
Somehow, the old woman has convinced him; he feels the outcome is within his grasp. It is there, at the edge of his consciousness – accurate, inevitable. He needs time, time for the end to come. And after a while, after a day or two of exhausting walking, it does come.
The Doctor, he is the key; has to be where you start. Walking with the collapsing Pelham down that long black corridor to the gateway. Throughout, the Doctor has been the focus, the point of contact. He seems to know so much, to be so aware, despite his funny ways.
What would he do in this situation? Ponch feels he knows so much about how the
Doctor would deal with this situation. He has a... what is it?... a goodness about him. You always know what he’s going to do. Yes, that’s it, he’ll try and do the good thing.
Start there and you can’t go far wrong.
All right then, the Doctor will walk to the gateway, ready to meet Neville and Huvan and Romana.
Oh wait, hang on a minute. They have to get there first, don’t they? Otherwise it won’t make sense. Perhaps it would be better to start with them.
Yes, that is what he will do.
The gateway itself, straining and buckling and warping under the influence of the mighty forces inside it, must be impressive. Oh yes, it has to be huge!
Romana, tagging along behind the impatient Magus and the besotted boy, finally gets to see this doorway they have so long been involved with, but not actually seen.
The gateway is metal, a huge slab of metal, that screeches and strains with its contained forces. It’s probably wise to stop thinking of it as a door, however, as it is actually embedded in the floor of the tomb. More like a huge trap door, stretching away into the distance. Irregular bubbles grow out of its metal skin, as if pummelled from below by giant fists. Arcane symbols have been embossed into its surface, free from the ancient dust that covers the rest of the slab. Small intertwined markings, linked by some strange meaning. And in the centre, one evil-looking five-pointed star, the sign of the Old Ones.
‘The tomb of Valdemar,’ breathes Neville, dropping to his knees.
Romana knows he is wrong. But not by much. Perhaps there is something in what he says. Mighty forces do reside behind this metal plate. Not Valdemar, no. Something much more impressive.
Romana stares at the star. The symbol actually seems quite comforting, reminding her of that balmy immersion in the Kinetic Dance that she experienced in Huvan’s bedroom.
Perhaps the Doctor is wrong; perhaps opening the tomb doesn’t mean universal Armageddon after all. He doesn’t know everything and is prone to some rather impetuous value judgements.
The thought, now here, is logical. The Kinetic Dance, that ancient belief, implies a separation from the primal universe.
This separation is the cause of all conflict, all war, all chaos.
Why shouldn’t we all return to that universe? There wouldn’t be any need for the Key to Time then; life would be back to its natural pure state. All would be One, one divine state of grace. Yes. Despite his misconceptions, Neville’s plan might actually result in something good, something great.
She thinks about her plan to rush back to the Tardis and enlist the aid of the Time Lords. What a silly, immature, futile plan. To work against the opening. How could she even have thought such a thing? One has to separate oneself from emotion, perceive things as they really are. Her own people are so conservative, so reactionary, they would undoubtedly oppose such an inevitable, sweeping action. They just wouldn’t understand, would fail to see the logic.
‘Romana?’ asks Huvan. ‘Are you ready to open the gateway?’
She ponders the question. How can anybody be ready for that majesty?
It’s funny, but she wonders how she ever found him repulsive.
‘Open it,’ Neville orders. ‘Release Valdemar!’
Romana looks at him kneeling on the filthy ground. How small he now seems to her, how pathetic. The idea that this vain, ageing idiot could be any kind of spiritual leader is amusing. How little he knows of the truth of this greatness.
Huvan holds out a hand to her. ‘I’m doing this for you,’ he says sincerely. ‘Everything I’ve done is for you.’
Romana smiles.
‘At last,’ Neville mutters to himself. ‘The Dark One, reborn at my bidding, my will!’ He laughs, a booming laugh revealing precisely the extent of his insanity. ‘Valdemar reveals himself to me! I see planets crumble! Stars themselves beg for mercy as we sweep by on our black wings! Release Valdemar!’ His voice rises in a tiresomely theatrical crescendo. ‘I command you! Release him now!’
‘Erm, excuse me,’ comes a familiar voice. A voice from someone Romana knows to be dead.
‘Doctor?’ she asks, not sure whether she is pleased at his arrival or not. He emerges from the shadows, nonchalantly inspecting the symbols on the tomb.
‘Hello Romana. You look a little tired. Now be careful if you walk near it. I don’t think this tomb is safe. You think there’d be a rail or something.’
Pelham is there too, walking into the light. Although
‘staggering’ might be a more appropriate verb for the way she is moving. ‘Give it up, Neville,’ she says, bolder than Romana has ever known her. ‘There’s nothing here for you.’
Neville is staring at them, open-mouthed. ‘You,’ he hisses.
‘You’re dead! I killed you.’
The Doctor smiles. ‘Well, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.’
Neville takes a deep breath. He is trying to take in this impossibility. ‘You certainly won’t, Doctor,’ he replies. ‘In fact, you won’t do anything ever again. Huvan...’
‘Oh, is that the best you can do?’ The Doctor seems upset, let down. ‘Surely you want me to witness your great triumph, the culmination of your life’s work? I mean, what’s so special about unleashing a great god of destruction if you don’t leave anyone alive to gloat about it to. That’s half the fun in my opinion.’
‘Huvan, kill him.’
‘Of course, that’s just one opinion.’ The Doctor raises his hands.
‘Cease your prattling.’
‘You see, I don’t believe you can do it. I don’t think you control Huvan as much as you think you do.’
‘He’s right, Huvan,’ says Romana suddenly. She is glad to see that the Doctor is seeing reason.
At last Huvan himself, who has been watching this squabble with the detached amusement of a boy burning ants, acknowledges the Doctor’s entrance. ‘You are perceptive, Doctor,’ he concurs.
Neville’s face is the epitome of crestfallen astonishment.
‘What? What did you say?’
The Doctor continues. ‘You have become a man, Huvan.
The higher dimensions have allowed you to see yourself as an adult. Isn’t that right, Romana?’
She is forced to agree.
The white-faced Pelham makes her contribution. She clutches at the stained bandage on her arm. ‘You know that Valdemar is a child’s dream. I just made it up. He never existed except in your mind.’
Huvan smiles. ‘You are correct, Miranda.’
‘Yeah, careful with the familiarity and everything, Huvan.’
Neville interrupts. He obviously cannot believe what he is hearing. ‘But...’ he stutters, ‘but I gave you this power. I raised you for this destiny. To become Valdemar. Without me, you were nothing, a slave. You owe me everything!’
‘No,’ says Huvan. ‘You gave me everything except the one thing I ever wanted – to be myself. You have used me cruelly, Paul Neville, and I owe you nothing. Look at yourself. There is no Valdemar and there is no Magus. There is only you and your blinkered dreams.’
Neville will not be crushed. ‘You are mine, Huvan, body and soul. Obey my commands.’ He is so angry, he literally shakes his fist at his protégé. ‘I will not be defied!’
‘Oh, shut up,’ snaps the Doctor rudely. ‘It’s all over.
Romana, say your goodbyes, we’ve got work to be getting on with. And I really think we need to get you away from this place.’
Old habits die hard, goes the cliché, and Romana takes a step forward before she realises she cannot go with him. She does not want to go with him.
Huvan turns his placid gaze upon the Doctor. ‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘It’s not like that at all. The tomb will be opened, Doctor. Have no fear of that.’
For once, for the first time ever, she sees the Doctor at a loss for words. ‘What?’ he mutters, regaining his composure.
‘What do you mean, “it will be opened”? Of course it won’t.’
He is wrong. They all know it. He
is wrong to be upset by this. ‘Doctor,’ Romana says, ‘don’t be afraid. Huvan here is about to perform a wondrous act. He will restore the universe back to its natural state.’
The Doctor shakes his head, as she knew he would. ‘My poor Romana,’ he replies softly. ‘What has he been telling you? Didn’t I warn you about boys? They’ll say anything to impress. I’m sure it was on my list of “a thousand and one universal constants to warn Romana about”.’
‘I am no longer a child,’ says Huvan, coldly. ‘Do not treat me as such. The tomb will be opened. Now.’
Romana
hears
the
psychically-operated
locking
mechanisms click apart with a great echoing screech. The embossed symbols, sleepy with age, sink into the buckled plates. All across its surface, the metal begins to soften, to alter form. Deep inside the planet, the particle accelerator screams with even more violent energy. She feels the ground shake, feels the ultimate release of energy approaching.
Soon, she realises. Soon. Happiness fills her with light.
At this point, it would probably be wise to initiate the reappearance of Robert Hopkins and Mr Redfearn. Let us assume they escaped from the collapsing palace via the transmat and have found their way here, just at this crucial moment. They bring an almost comic element to the proceedings, as we imagine their soot-blackened faces and wide blinking eyes. Let’s face it, they’ve been through a lot.
They are watching from the wings, Hopkins astonished to realise he has finally caught up with his arch rival. Mr Redfearn instinctively lines up a shot, but his master knocks his arm away. He wants to savour the moment.
At last, however, he dares wait no longer. The rending screeches of shifting metal that reverberate throughout the cavern imply that this drama is moving into its final stage. All attention is on the gateway as it grinds open. Hopkins doesn’t like the look of what seems to be happening here, this blurring mist that rises from the big metal slab.
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