Doctor Who_ Atom Bomb Blues - Andrew Cartmel [56]
The bottle had no label. It was half full of clear liquid, which glinted amber in the fire light.
‘Why don’t you have a drink?’ suggested the Doctor.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Butcher.
‘Go on,’ said the Doctor. He passed the bottle to the young Indian, who shoved it into Butcher’s hands. All three Indians raised their rifles. Butcher realised it wasn’t a suggestion.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Ace. ‘There isn’t a worm in the bottom.’
Butcher raised the neck of the bottle to his mouth and tried to fake a swallow, but the young Indian stepped forward and tilted it steeply in Butcher’s hands. Warm, harsh liquid flooded from the bottle into Butcher’s throat.
Butcher choked, the spirit burning in his nose and eyes and mouth. He coughed and spat and fought the bottle away from his face. The young Indian took it back and sat down on the other side of the fire. He was smiling faintly. His two elders were entirely expressionless. Butcher felt the liquor flood through his system with its mendacious warmth and comfort.
The Doctor leaned over and picked up a wicker basket. He set it on his knees, opened it and took out a sandwich. ‘You mustn’t drink on an empty stomach, Major.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I’m afraid I must insist.’ The Doctor handed the sandwich to the scar-faced Indian, who set his rifle aside and carried it around the fire to Butcher.
Butcher accepted the sandwich and started eating it. He knew he didn’t have any choice. He chewed and swallowed, hardly registering the taste of the bitter vegetable stuff between the two slices of bread. Butcher ate every scrap of it.
When he was finished the Doctor said, ‘Would you like another drink?’
‘No thank you,’ said Butcher.
‘As you wish.’ This time the Doctor didn’t get the Indians to force him. The bottle stayed on the ground, glinting in the flames. They all sat there for what seemed a long time. None of the Indians seemed to feel the need to say anything, the Doctor was entirely comfortable in the silence, occasionally smiling at Butcher across the fire. The girl’s eyes drifted shut and she began 99
to sleep, snoring gently. The fire crackled and spat and the shadows danced.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour had passed, Butcher felt he had to say something. ‘What are we waiting for?’
‘The peyote,’ said the Doctor. At the sound of his voice Ace woke up and blinked blearily.
‘The what?’ said Butcher. His voice was a harsh croak.
‘The peyote. It’s a naturally occurring hallucinogen found – where is it found Ace?’
‘In the buds of a cactus called William something,’ she said sleepily, half awake now.
‘Close enough,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s a powerful intoxicant that causes visions and your sandwich was full of it. We are waiting for it to take effect.’
The Doctor glanced at his pocket watch. ‘Which should be happening any time now.’
‘What the hell have you done to me?’ said Butcher.
The Doctor smiled at him. His eyes looked uncanny in the light of the fire, a restless liquid gleam in them. ‘Peyote is a sacrament to the Mescalero Apaches. The white man has tried to stamp out its use, but he has been far from successful. It is still deployed, sparingly because of its immense power, by certain shaman. Shaman such as Black Eyes here.’ Butcher looked at the old Indian, who stared back at him as if he wasn’t there.
The Doctor said, ‘The Mescalero Apaches see the world as being an intricate web of forces. These natural forces act on human beings through the agency of the weather, the sun, the moon, animals or plants.’ The Doctor’s dark eyes seemed to be staring into the depths of Butcher’s soul. ‘Peyote is unique among these plants in being considered to be utterly evil. The only corresponding evil to be found among the animals spirits is the owl.’ The Doctor fell silent and at that instant an owl called in the branches above them. It was an unearthly sound and Butcher felt a cold vibration shiver up his spine like electric current.
‘Right on cue,’ said Ace. She sounded impressed, suddenly wide awake again.
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