by Doctor Who
Now, however, mathematics was in full swing – or, rather, would have been, if only Mr Somo would let them all get on with the exercises he had set. Instead, the sour-faced teacher seemed intent on discussing the theory. He must have repeated the same point about twenty times now, and if Jude had once understood what Mr Somo was driving at, she was no longer quite so sure.
Jude let her mind wander back over the history lesson. It was somehow comforting to think that generations of children – doubtless many as bored as she was – had sat in this room and listened to teachers going on about the importance of mathematics in everyday life. Some had perhaps become elders or advisers; others, who history would never record, had led perfectly happy lives working in the fields and drinking in the inn. Jude wondered if these people should be ven-erated at least as much as the leaders of the past, for Jude’s father 39
had often said that deciding to concentrate on looking after a family – rather than meddling in the lives of the whole village – was an especially noble calling.
Jude let her fingers run over the rough surface of her desk. Names had been scratched into its surface with knives and the broken nibs of ink pens; she wondered idly if ‘CB’ was still in love with ‘AR’, and if
‘Tomas J’ still lived in the village, or had long since been consigned to the ground.
Jude thought a lot about death these days. She supposed that was normal enough – she’d be a teenager in a few months and her father had often warned her to be on her guard against ‘depressing thoughts’
as she got older. And, given what had happened lately, it was no surprise that the entire village seemed less lively than usual. Of course, everybody knew that death was a normal part of life, like night-time as a necessary opposite to day, but Jude had found herself dwelling on such things recently.
This morning there had been another empty desk in the school-room. Jude didn’t really know Farah all that well, but Sayan had said that Farah’s mother had been up since daybreak, searching the village, eyes raw and red with crying. The other children had tried to ignore the empty desk, but Jude kept looking over at it, still shocked by everyone’s resigned acceptance. Jude couldn’t just accept what had happened; she didn’t understand what caused the children to disappear, but she knew, somehow, that it must be fought against. It must be resisted, not given in to.
One window looked out towards the lake and its small island. Farah had played on the shore only yesterday, orchestrating some of the younger children into a game of catchball. She’d laughed when the mist seemed to roll off the surface of the lake and onto the fields, running through the fog and flapping her arms in defiance and laughter.
And now the fog had taken her. . .
Or had it?
Jude blinked, rubbing her eyes. Wasn’t there someone out there now? A dark form, its humanity stripped away by the obscuring grey haze, until it resembled little more than a child’s stick drawing flailing 40
in the mist. It was probably nothing, some adult taking a shortcut behind the school on their way home.
Suddenly the fog parted, and Jude almost cried out in surprise. She continued to stare, ignoring everything around her, paying no heed to the icicle fingers that were now running up and down her spine.
Farah stood outside, drained of colour, seemingly drained of life, staring at the school with grim, uncomprehending fascination. Even her clothes, which suddenly seemed to hang from her pale, thin body, appeared as if bleached and drained of all vibrancy.
‘Jude, are you paying attention?’
Jude snapped her head back into the classroom. Mr Somo was standing over her, his face screwed up in irritation, a vein at the side of his head pulsing slowly. ‘Sir, it’s. . . ’
Jude looked back towards the lake. In a moment, the fog seemed to have receded, leaving a pristine field of grass that cried out for children to play over it. Of the pale figure there was absolutely no sign.
‘What?’ Somo’s face leaned ever closer.
Jude shook her head, concerned – but aware that her own troubles were only just beginning if she couldn’t placate Mr Somo.
‘Sorry, sir. . . Just daydreaming.’
‘Perhaps a little extra homework would help you focus on the task at hand?’ Mr Somo stood staring for a few moments more, then returned to his position at the front of the class. ‘If you could all now begin the exercise in front of you. . . ’
As Jude began to write she risked one last glance through the window.
There was no one there.
They walked into the village in silence. Martha wasn’t sure if in some strange way they had offended Saul, or if he now simply considered them mad and was giving them a wide berth.
As they approached the large, ceremonial building that dominated one end of the central green, the Doctor nudged Martha in the ribs.
‘What do you make of this place?’ he whispered.
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‘Odd,’ said Martha, still struggling with the implications of what the Doctor had said to Saul. ‘I don’t see a supermarket or a fast food place anywhere,’ she added, trying to make light of the situation.
‘All right, given that,’ said the Doctor, patiently, ‘what do you think of its architecture, its style, its culture. . . In Earth terms, does it suggest anything at all?’
Martha looked around, trying to take it all in. ‘Well, I suppose. . . I don’t know really. . . Tibet?’
‘A mishmash of influences from Earth,’ said the Doctor. ‘All jumbled together, along with stuff I’m not sure I recognise – sliding doors in frames shaped like keyholes, triangular windows. . . ’ He pointed to the green square of grass at the centre of the village; the children were playing some complex game with bats and balls, under the watchful eye of a trader who’d set up a stall. ‘Look at that quickly and you’d think we were in the Cotswolds, look back at those mountains and you’d swear we were in the Andes.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘I’m not sure,’ admitted the Doctor. He glanced at Saul, some feet ahead of them. He gave no sign of listening in on their conversation, though he did glance over his shoulder from time to time to check they were still there.
‘Another thing,’ continued the Doctor. ‘This place seems absolutely isolated, and yet. . . No one’s staring at us. No one’s suspicious or frightened. I haven’t even flashed the old psychic paper yet!’ He drummed his fingers against his cheeks, thinking out loud. ‘S’ppose it explains one thing, though,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘That bigjumble of readings we got back on the Castor,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s not one creature, but hundreds – every person in the village, every cow in the field, every bear in the forest – all rolled into one. No wonder the poor computer couldn’t make sense of it!’
‘What you said about this place not really existing,’ said Martha. ‘Do you mean that?’
‘Did we see a chunk of planet on the TARDIS scanners when we looked at the research centre?’ reasoned the Doctor. ‘Was any of this 42
here when we first explored?’
‘We could be the ones who are mistaken,’ said Martha. ‘I mean, the TARDIS is bigger on the inside than the outside. Why not a spaceship that works the same way?’
‘Lots of reasons,’ said the Doctor. ‘And when you open the outer door, the control room is always there.’ He paused. ‘Well, nine times out of ten,’ he added in a whisper.
‘Sorry?’
‘The inside of the TARDIS,’ said the Doctor more loudly. ‘It isn’t switched on and off like a light in a fridge.’
‘And this place was?’
‘Seems that way,’ said the Doctor. ‘We left the TARDIS in a deserted corridor, and returned to find a door leading to a forest. Draw your own conclusions!’
‘But this seems so real,’ said Martha. ‘We’ve walked for miles. I can smell someone cooking dinner. That man over there is repairing the tiles on his roof. . . ’
‘Dreams seem real e
nough, when you’re asleep.’
‘Dreams don’t seem to have real people in them, going about their lives. I just think we should tread carefully, that’s all.’
The Doctor nodded slowly. He seemed intrigued by her reaction. It was as if, from time to time, he needed a compass to live his life by –and a human one at that.
Moments later they stopped outside the ceremonial building at the heart of the Village. Saul began to ascend the steps.
‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I will tell Petr that you have arrived.’
‘So,’ said Petr, settling down in a vast wooden chair and indicating that the Doctor and Martha should also sit. ‘My brother tells me you don’t think any of us exist?’
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ said the Doctor, trying to be diplomatic.
‘But I’m pretty sure none of this. . . ’ With a broad wave of his hands he indicated the meeting room, the building itself, the village beyond.
‘None of this existed earlier today.’
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The leader seemed amused rather than outraged. He was a tall man, not as well built as Saul, but wiry and supple. He had piercing eyes and a pronounced Adam’s apple that bobbed as he spoke, as if underlining the importance of his words. If he was disturbed by the very thought of his own unreality, he was doing a good job of hiding it.
He leant forward to look at the Doctor more closely, absent-mindedly running a hand through his dark, unruly hair. ‘And yet we clearly exist now, or you would not waste your time talking to us.
What is your evidence for this startling claim. . . ?’
The Doctor sighed. ‘It’s hard to explain. You’ll have to trust us.’
‘Forgive me if I don’t,’ said Petr. ‘We have lived in this valley for hundreds of years. We have written records going back to the first elected leader, and beyond. We rise each morning, we eat and sleep, we have physical form. . . And yet, today, a stranger turns up, denying our very reality! Is this some sort of trick, or are you merely mad, sir?’
‘All I’m saying is – you can’t believe everything you see.’
Petr laughed. ‘At last we have some common ground! We can both, I think, agree on that.’ He leaned forward. ‘And your friend?’ he said, looking to Martha. ‘What does she say?’
Martha cleared her throat. ‘Well, um. . . We were on this. . . ship in the stars. . . We were trying to return to our own. . . craft. We were walking down this corridor when. . . all of this appeared.’
‘Then at least it is a shared madness,’ said Petr, a note of disappointment in his voice. The man’s tone surprised Martha – it was as if, beneath that unflappable exterior, he had expected more of the Doctor and Martha. Petr got to his feet. ‘Now, forgive me, I have more urgent matters to consider. . . ’
‘Look, sorry to be nosy,’ said the Doctor, ‘but can I ask what these
“urgent matters” are?’
Petr stared back at the Doctor, his face thoughtful. ‘Some people have disappeared from the village,’ he said eventually. ‘Always children. Always at night.’
‘Do these kids know each other?’ asked Martha. In her experience, children were always running away from home – or threatening to.
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But for a group of them to disappear, and not return – and in as enclosed a community as this – clearly spoke of something more sinister.
Petr shook his head. ‘It seems random, a. . . ’ He paused before proceeding, his eyes distant. ‘It is a different family every time. It is as if some. . . dark angel passes over our homes at night.’
‘And how often has this happened?’ asked the Doctor.
‘Eight times,’ said Petro ‘But the attacks are getting more frequent.’
‘Any evidence?’ queried Martha. ‘Broken doors or windows, that sort of thing. . . ?’
Another shake of the head. ‘Windows and doors are still locked.
The beds seem. . . undisturbed.’
For the first time Petr’s voice cracked with emotion, and Martha could see the impact this was having on him. Small wonder he wasn’t really taking the Doctor seriously – his mind was on other things.
‘Now, I must go and speak with the latest family,’ said Petr abruptly.
‘I must assure them that we are doing all that we can. But in truth. . .
it was a mystery when the first child vanished, and it remains a mystery now.’
‘What’s the name of this village?’ said the Doctor, changing tack suddenly.
Petr looked puzzled, as if he barely understood the question. ‘It’s our home, where we live – and where we have always lived. . . ’
‘But surely,’ continued the Doctor, ‘this place must have a name?
On the way over, your brother told me that you sometimes welcome travellers and traders. If you were to write a formal document on behalf of the village, how would you describe yourself? Elder of. . . ?’
‘I am the twelfth elected elder of Herot.’
‘Herot? That sounds like. . .
How interesting!’ said the Doctor
breathlessly.
‘Interesting?’ queried Martha.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ whispered the Doctor, turning once more back to Petro ‘Tell me about your contact with the outside world. What region are we in? What land, what country, what nation? Who rules over you, who do you have treaties with?’
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‘Our allegiance is only to each other, to the life we wish to live in peace. As for wider, worldly matters. . . I cannot answer your questions. They do not concern us.’ Petr looked closely at the Doctor.
‘If you hail from these distant regions, you yourself must know the answers to your questions.’
‘Could I have a look at these documents you mentioned?’ asked the Doctor.
‘Of course,’ said Petro ‘I am glad to welcome you both to our village,’
he said as he got to his feet. ‘I think you will provide. . . entertainment, if nothing else. A distraction from our very real worries.’
Martha left the Doctor examining the records kept in the ceremonial hall. Apparently the most recent documents were stored there, while much older records were looked after by the Dazai, some sort of sage who lived on the edge of the village. The Doctor had said he was going to visit her later – after a quick detour in the general direction of the village pub.
Petr’s wife, Kristine, had walked into the room and introduced herself, somewhat uncertainly, and then accompanied Martha back to their home. As personal guests of the leader, the Doctor and Martha would have the most lavish rooms the village could offer.
Such things are, of course, relative. As Martha sat on the edge of a large bed in an almost bare room she resisted the temptation to look under the downy blanket for fleas or goodness knows what. It wasn’t exactly five star, she concluded, but the villagers clearly meant well.
There was a tall canvas cupboard in one corner, and a simple wooden table, complete with jug of water, by the window. The window itself afforded a fine view of the bustling centre of the village.
Martha watched as people went about their business: an old man with a stick, bowing low as he passed a couple of young women in brightly coloured dresses; a lad in his late teens reading a book as he leant against the sun-drenched side of a house; women – and men –haggling over prices in the market. From somewhere there came the sound of music – a sitar or some equivalent. It had to be real – but what link could all this possibly have to the space station with its dead 46
bodies and its sinister, oppressive atmosphere?
Martha still thought some sort of portal was the most likely explanation for everything that had happened – that she and the Doctor had stepped through from one area of space and time to another –but then, unbidden, the memory of the metallic tree came to mind. It was as if the space station had merged into the forest and everything that was beyond it.
Martha walked out of the bedroom, descended the stairs, and saw Kristine ha
nging out the washing on a line at the back of the house.
Kristine was a dark, broad woman, and beads of sweat were just appearing on her forehead as she worked her way efficiently through a large basket of clothing.
Martha walked through the open door and out into the yard. Kristine turned as she heard Martha approach. ‘Is your room. . . appropri-ate?’ she asked, bowing low. ‘I’m not sure what you are used to.’
Martha seized on the comment, wondering if what Petr had said could possibly be true – that they really did have almost no contact with any other settlement. ‘What do you know about the outside world?’ she queried.
‘Nothing,’ Kristine said simply. ‘We keep ourselves to ourselves.’
‘But people visit you from nearby towns,’ persisted Martha. ‘There must be travellers, traders. . . ’
‘Oh yes,’ said Kristine. ‘Once in a while we see people from beyond the village. They stay with us for a few hours, a few days, and then they leave.’
‘Has any villager ever travelled to one of these towns?’
Kristine shook her head. ‘Even Saul has never ventured beyond the forest.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because my brother has said that I should not,’ said Saul, stepping out of the house and towards the two women.
‘And you always do what your brother tells you?’ said Martha, turning. It was a genuine question but it came out sounding a little more sarcastic than she had meant.
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Saul paused for a moment, momentarily taken aback. ‘Of course I do. . . He is our elected leader.’ He turned to Kristine. ‘I was only able to check half the traps this morning. I’m going back to the woods now.’
‘Don’t worry, Saul,’ said Kristine, resting a hand on his arm. ‘I have some salted meat put aside.’
Saul moved away from Kristine, embarrassed by her physical contact. Martha saw a brief look pass between them.
Saul shook his head. ‘I said I’d bring something fresh, and that’s what I intend to do. Even your skill cannot turn stale ingredients into a banquet!’