by Cavan Scott
And yet the Doctor was approaching the van as if it was an old friend. ‘Velma, Velma, Velma,’ he said, tutting. ‘What has happened to you?’
‘You recognise this thing?’ Schofield said, peering through windows that were caked in grime.
‘She belonged to a friend of mine. Well, an acquaintance really. You met her. Charlotte Sadler, aka Cryptogal-UK.’
‘The lass with the phone.’
‘The very same,’ he said, running his hand along the blemished bodywork.
‘And I’m assuming she doesn’t work for UNIT, either?’
‘Not yet, although they could’ve done a lot worse. Charlotte was persistent, that’s for sure.’
Schofield didn’t like the way the Doctor was talking. ‘What do you mean, was?’
The Doctor disappeared around the back of the van. ‘You’d better come and see for yourself.’
He was standing beside the van’s door. The paint around the handle wasn’t just scratched, it was gouged, deep channels cut into the metal itself.
‘What do these look like to you?’
The answer was obvious. ‘Claw marks. Lots and lots of claw marks. The Boggarts?’
He didn’t answer, but instead produced an eyeglass from his pocket, the kind her grandad had used to fix watches. Throwing his jacket on the ground and holding the lens in place with his eye, he bent down to inspect the scratches. ‘I thought so.’
‘Thought what?’
‘The paint around the marks has bubbled, from intense heat. Something got its fingers burnt.’
He tapped a button on the side of the eyeglass. It beeped, and whirred and then sparked furiously. The Doctor stood up sharply, the lens dropping from his face. It landed in the grass next to his feet, and smoked furiously, the smell of burning electrics only just noticeable, almost lost in the sickly reek of the forest.
‘Is it supposed to do that?’ she asked.
The Doctor blinked to clear his vision, and rubbed his eye. ‘I should have thought before activating the spectatropic filter. Technology can be a bit temperamental around here.’
‘These work all right,’ she said, tapping her sunglasses.
‘Dimensional shielding in the hinges,’ he explained. ‘If that failed, the sonic vibrations would reduce your brains to rice pudding.’
‘Now he tells me,’ she said, shaking her head.
The Doctor peered over her shoulder into the trees behind her. ‘The sonic cone probably means that you can’t hear that either, can you?’
‘Hear what?’ she said, looking behind her, half expecting to see a pack of slavering Boggarts.
‘Music.’
The way he was glowering told Schofield that the tune wasn’t to his taste.
‘Nearby?’
He nodded. ‘Not far away.’
He turned back to the van, pulling at the door. It stuck, the sliding mechanism long since rusted solid. He pulled harder, the runners squealing as the door yanked open.
The inside of the van was a wreck. Splintered doors hung from ransacked cupboards, the seats shredded, their padding strewn across a cluttered floor. The Doctor brushed some of the detritus away, revealing muddy footprints beneath.
Schofield felt sick. The prints were far too large to be a human’s, and then there were the six toes, each ending in a sharp point. She imagined the Boggarts in there; snarling, biting, dragging the poor girl out of the door. At least there was no blood, not that she could see.
The Doctor stalked away, his face darkening. ‘Can you close the door?’ he asked, his words tight and controlled.
She tried her best, the mechanism sticking before the lock could click home.
The Doctor stood facing the trees. His eyes had been full of sorrow when he’d seen the inside of the van. Now, they were furious, burning with righteous indignation.
She walked up beside him, not wanting to intrude on his grief. He didn’t say anything, but reached over to tap the side of the sunglasses. The soundscape of the forest changed, and she realised she could hear a cascading melody filtering through the trees.
‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ she commented. ‘Quite jaunty.’ She was pretty sure she’d never used the word jaunty in her life.
The Doctor went back to retrieve his jacket. He slipped his arms through the golden sleeves, despite the heat. Schofield had the sudden impression of a knight pulling on his armour, preparing for battle.
‘You asked what we were going to do, PC Schofield,’ he said, straightening his lapels and brushing blades of grass from his sleeves. ‘It’s time to face the music.’
‘And dance?’ she offered with a half-smile.
The look he gave her was grave. ‘I hope not. For both our sakes.’
Chapter 29
Lady of the Dance
This time they didn’t have to walk far. The Doctor led them through the trees, finding a steep bank. It was covered in tall nettles that seemed to sway in time to the music that drifted down from above.
‘Don’t let them sting you,’ the Doctor said, ploughing straight into the nettles to clamber up the incline.
‘Why?’ she hissed up at him, keeping her voice down. ‘What will happen?’
He stopped and looked down. ‘At best, it’ll hurt.’
‘And at worst?’
‘You’ll turn into them.’
‘I’ll turn into nettles!’
He continued on his way. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
She’d wanted him to tell her he was joking, but had been here long enough by now to know that he wasn’t.
Thank heavens she hadn’t completely abandoned her fleece. She removed the sleeves from around her waist and slipped it back on, pulling the zip up tight to her neck. Tucking her trouser legs into her socks, she slid her hands into her sleeves and started after the Doctor. The nettles were up to her waist as she climbed, her feet struggling to find firm footing beneath the weeds. She fell forward more than once, throwing up a fleece-covered sleeve to stop herself landing face first in the nettles. The barbed leaves caught on the fibres of her jacket, but she kept going, praying that none of the venomous needles found their way through the many tears her uniform had endured.
She made it to the top of the bank, grabbing a lowhanging branch to pull herself the last metre or so. The Doctor was ahead, hiding behind a bush. Keeping her head down, she ran over, dropping down beside him. The music was louder now and ridiculously compelling. Schofield found herself tapping her hand across her knee in time with the melody. In fact, her entire body was tingling. She felt light-headed, her eyelids drooping as an inane smile spread across her face. She was swaying, laughter bubbling up from deep inside her; a giggle that she tried to control but knew would escape. What was wrong with her? And why did she care? It felt good, whatever it was. She didn’t want to fight the laugh, but embrace it. Who cared if it gave away their presence? She wanted to dance. She wanted to dance so badly, even though her legs were cramped and her back ached. Dancing would make it all better. Dancing would make her feel alive.
The giggle slipped past her lips and the world began to spin …
The Doctor leant across and tapped the sunglasses. It was like being slapped in the face to sober you up. Schofield looked around, disorientated, as if realising where she was for the first time.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I needed the glasses to sample a few bars before they could filter out the effects.’
Schofield cocked her head. He was right. She couldn’t hear the music at all now, although she could still feel it in her gut, a faint vibration. She thought she should tell the Doctor, but liked the sensation, no matter how scary it had been. ‘What did it do to me?’
‘Ever heard of mind control?’
‘Yes, but it was just music.’
He looked at her askance. ‘Just music. Music is primal.’ He tapped his chest. ‘It gets into a heart, into a soul. Ever seen a film before the score is laid down? The action seems stilted, the emotional reso
nance not quite there. Add a soundtrack, and you make the audience feel the way you want.’
‘But where is it coming from?’
He pointed past the bush, but Schofield couldn’t see a thing. A thick mist hung low in front of them, obscuring the field beyond.
‘Look harder,’ he told her.
‘How …?’ Even before she finished her question, her vision began to clear. It wasn’t that the mist was thinning, somehow she knew it was still there, but the sunglasses were reacting to her thoughts, cutting through the fog.
So that’s what X-ray vision felt like.
Shapes were solidifying in the haze. Tall, blocky shadows arranged in a circle. Stones! They were standing stones, each covered in moss that seemed to squirm across the faces of the monoliths.
She could see fires now, braziers mounted on poles, and that wasn’t all. There were figures gathered around the stones, dancing and cheering. They swam into focus, and Schofield had to clasp her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out.
There were Boggarts, with their rangy limbs and shaggy hair, and giants as tall as a double-decker bus with hairy faces and even hairier hands. Some of the throng were small, barely coming up to the Boggarts’ bony knees, with large bulbous heads and stubby limbs. Others were obscenely fat, folds of layered flesh covered in swirling tattoos, ridged tusks curling up from their wide, slobbering months.
Then there were the things that hovered in the air, darting back and forth like wasps ready to attack on a summer day. They bore a resemblance to their Boggart cousins, with the same blotchy skin, and long, clawed fingers. But these had long conical heads cropped with tight crimped hair, and translucent wings that whirred between angular shoulder blades.
‘The fair folk,’ the Doctor explained quietly.
‘They don’t look very fair to me.’
‘Not in any sense of the word.’
‘What are they watching?’
‘The Dance,’ the Doctor replied, as if those were the most hateful words in the English language.
Schofield could make out a large golden harp, glistening in the torchlight. It was being played by a creature with the body the size of a child and the arms of a daddy-long-legs. Its fingers plucked and strummed the strings, mesmerising even from this distance, until Schofield saw something else in the centre of the stone circle.
Someone was dancing, whirling around and around in time to the music, arms waving, and legs kicking.
She wanted to look closer, and the glasses obliged, zooming in like a camera lens. Were these things telepathic?
She could make out a tattered bomber jacket and frayed jeans. It was a woman, dancing as if no one was watching, lost to the music, her head lolling forward as if it was too heavy for her neck, hair obscured by a black beanie hat.
‘That’s your friend,’ Schofield realised. ‘Charlotte.’
‘She always wanted the limelight.’
Charlotte turned, facing them as she gyrated in the centre of the ring. Her face was gaunt, the creases deep around her nose and mouth. Her eyes were rolling in sunken sockets, her skin as grey as the lock of hair that tumbled down from beneath her hat
‘What happened to her?’ Schofield asked, the glasses pulling away for her.
‘She’s been dancing a long time,’ the Doctor replied. ‘And will continue to do so until her audience grows weary, or her heart ruptures in her chest …’
Chapter 30
Last of the Three
The First of the Three wanted blood. It wanted to crunch bones. It wanted to make something scream.
They had tried to kill the tree. They’d snapped its boughs and stripped the bark from its limbs. Sap had flowed, and the tree had fought back. The Woodling had smashed the Three into the ground. It had flayed their backs with its branches. Roots had sprung from the ground, wrapping around them like serpents, squeezing tight. The First had heard his brother’s neck snap, seen his body go limp as it was dragged into the dirt.
The Three had become Two.
Still the tree did not give up. It raised a gigantic hand and brought it down hard. The scream of the First’s remaining brother sent birds flying from the canopy.
When the tree raised its hand, what remained of his brother was still.
The Two had become One.
The First didn’t want to die. Roots were creeping up his legs, pulling him down into the earth. He kicked and he pulled and he tore himself free.
And the First had escaped; bloody, bruised and alone. The jeers of the tree still rang in his ears, and the pain of leaving his brothers behind made his heart ache. They would be one with the forest. They would be at peace, but not he. Not until he had his revenge.
The woman and man from the other place. This was their fault. They had done it. They’d given the Woodling its prize, the trophy it had protected come what may. Now they would pay the price.
The First of the Three ran through the forest, slashing at trees, revelling in their innocent howls.
‘Where did they go?’ he demanded. ‘Show me or die.’
And the trees showed him. The stupid, cowardly trees. They pointed and swayed and shook their branches.
And he found them.
The First stopped running, and hid behind a tree, watching his prey.
They were in the clearing where the Dancer’s carriage stood, where it had been dragged from the Visible so many seasons ago. The First hated it. The stink of the metal burned his nose, but his anger burned deeper still.
The man who had travelled opened a door at the front of the machine and leant inside. His companion was sitting behind a wheel inside the carriage, following instructions. There was a cough and a growl and the carriage roared, smoke bellowing from its rear. The man slammed the door shut and clambered inside.
Their words were strange, but the First could guess what they meant.
‘I’ll drive.’
‘No, I will.’
‘You can get out and walk!’
The carriage spluttered and jolted forwards, weeds tearing from its wheels.
They would not escape again.
He charged from the trees, teeth bared, claws sharp. The man was behind the wheel, his eyes wide as he looked through the cracked window. The carriage veered away, rushing towards the trees, leaving nothing but a cloud of foul-smelling air.
The First leapt, landing on its roof. The metal burned his skin, but he hung on, crawling forward as the carriage bucked and weaved between the trees.
They were heading towards the Circle. Towards the Dance. They would never make it to the stones. He would see to that. He would tear this monstrosity apart to get to them.
A branch struck him in the face, nearly knocking him to the ground. Which one of the trees was that? Had it done it on purpose? It didn’t matter.
Still he clung on, even though his blackened skin sizzled and smoked. It hurt so much, the pain stripping away the last of his reason. The First could barely remember why he was here, or what he wanted to kill so badly. But kill he would, whatever happened.
The carriage bucked beneath him, climbing the hill to the Dance. The First tried to hang on, but his fingers slipped, his claws slicing furrows into the accursed metal as he slid back.
He tumbled, the carriage speeding away. He crashed to the ground, rolling through the nettles before coming to rest at the bottom of the slope.
His skin was blistered, and his limbs were heavy. He could barely move as stems sprouted from his arms and legs, tall and slender.
His stems.
Buds burst along their thickening length, flowers blooming to catch the light.
His flowers.
Poison glistened in the tiny needles that bristled beneath the unfurling leaves.
His leaves.
The First of the Three did not think of the hunt.
The First of the Three did not think of his brothers.
The First of the Three did not think at all.
Instead he swayed wi
th the rest of the nettles, moving in time to the music of the Dance.
Chapter 31
Into the Circle
Schofield wondered what the camper van’s suspension had been like before it had spent the best part of three decades rusting in a fairy forest.
She was still having trouble with what the Doctor had told her: that a girl she’d seen just yesterday, fresh-faced and young, had somehow been trapped here for years, growing old, when barely any time at all had passed at home. Like Harold Marter, it was unbelievable, and like Harold Marter, Schofield had seen the results with her own eyes.
The van bounced up the nettle-strewn slope, the Doctor revving the engine, yelling at the clapped-out vehicle to keep going. There was something on the roof. They could hear it snarling, scraping and screaming. It had to be a Boggart. She expected a clawed hand to come crashing through the windscreen at any moment, but the scrabbling stopped when the Doctor launched the van over the crest of the hill. There was a strangled cry and the thump-thump-thump of a body rolling across the roof and it was gone.
The van landed back on its wheels and plunged into the mist.
‘Fog lights,’ she barked at him.
‘They bulbs have gone!’
He put his foot down and they shot forwards, Schofield anchoring herself against the dashboard and wishing again that her seatbelt was working.
Their arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed. The Fae spun around, hissing at the camper van’s approach.
The Doctor swerved as one of the fairies swooped towards them, talons outstretched. The creature caught a glancing blow, bouncing off the already cracked windscreen.
The rest of the horde were running at them now, the ground shaking as the giants lumbered forward. A Boggart threw itself at her door, its hand wrapping around the handle, only to howl in agony and let go.
‘Every legend has its basis in reality,’ the Doctor shouted, slewing Velma to the left. ‘The Fae are allergic to iron—’
‘Which is found in steel, I get it,’ Schofield said, clinging to the handgrip above her head. ‘But save the science lecture for another time, and concentrate on driving!’