Doctor Who_ Camera Obscura - Lloyd Rose [79]
He lodged his shoes in a crook of the tree, stuffed his wet socks in his pocket, and climbed up to where he could look over the moor. The clouds had blotted out more and more of the sky, though they hadn’t yet reached the moon, which hung lower now, as if cringing from their advance, its radiance wan and sickly, the shadows it threw longer and deeper. The wind had taken on a bitter, almost metallic edge. The Doctor saw with dismay that his detour had indeed led him farther from the village. He searched some other, lonelier light – a farmhouse or inn – but saw nothing. Twisting around, he peered back the way he had come, finding the spot where he had entered the stream, where, with a nasty shock he saw something moving, casting rapidly back and forth at the edge of the water. The dog. And worse, much worse, there was someone on horseback, watching. The Doctor couldn’t make this person out, except that he seemed to be swaddled in some sort of large cloak and wasn’t... shaped... quite... right.
The Doctor shivered – from the wind, he told himself. Stay or go? If he stayed, he could watch his pursuer, see which way he headed and use that knowledge to elude him. Unless the rider came this way. If he went to the other side of the grove and on to the moor there, he’d be fleeing into unknown territory in which, as far as he could see from here, there were no dwellings. Heads or tails? The Doctor decided to go with his instinct, and instinct told him to put as much distance as possible between himself and the figure on the horse.
He retrieved his shoes, tucked them under his arm, and made his way through the branches to the far end of the grove. On the ground, he put his damp shoes back on and then stood for a few seconds, wondering which way to go. He would have continued walking in the stream, but it had vanished underground. Best to head for high ground and search again for a farmhouse light.
He had to wade up through bracken, which made for slow going and soaked his trousers to his calves. The view from the top of the ridge proved disappointing: no lights, just spreading, desolate moor. Of course, most farmhouses probably wouldn’t be burning a light all night. He might just as easily come on one by accident as not. In any case, there was nothing to do but keep going. The moor was empty, but it wasn’t vast. Ten miles in any direction and he’d come to the settled edge.
The Doctor ran and walked alternately. An occasional rabbit shot across his path. Once, passing a stand of trees, he startled a badger which stared at him for a rigid, surprised instant before slipping Into the shadows. Several times he found himself suddenly among sheep, which trotted nervously aside as he ran by, then stopped and looked after him, chewing. If he’d come across any of the wild Dartmoor ponies he would have done his best to capture and mount one, but he never saw any.
More unavoidable bracken. A surprising and unpleasant encounter with a gorse bush. Heather, which smelled lovely as his stride crushed it, but was uneven and treacherous under his feet. All this time, the clouds crept up on the moon, and finally, as he stopped to rest near the foot of a tor, seized it. The light vanished as if swallowed, and the Doctor found himself blinking in total darkness. A spot of rain touched the back of his hand, another his face, then, with a brisk patter, the downpour began in earnest.
Almost simultaneously, he heard the dog.
Not now! Not now in the dark and the wet. Clumsily, the Doctor scrambled towards the tor. Seek high ground. Climb up the rocks. The dog couldn’t get at him there. Maybe the rain would wash away his track. Water ran into his eyes and soaked his hair. Was he going towards the tor at all? Could he even climb it in the dark? A deep, baying bark broke out in the distance, and he began to run.
It was more jumping