Doctor Who_ Rags - Mick Lewis [67]
And now the Doctor could see primitive man, awed by this cosmic fall and subconsciously surrendering to alien urges that seethed within his brain. These ancient savages worked on the field of stones already erected on the mystical site they had long sensed as unearthly, as special: they incorporated the still-warm rock into the group of stones, and they worshipped it. Maybe it had come home, for it was identical to the other standing stones in every way. Maybe it was ejected into the depths of space at some primal point of Earth’s spawning, and only now had begun to find its way back, impregnated with alien detritus.
The Doctor found himself pondering these imponderables, and the Ragman either refused to provide enlightenment, or could not.
The Ragman remained silent throughout the spectacular screening, the sick grin on its grey face the only sign that it was enjoying the process, as if boasting of its unique journey into existence.
Ley-line nexus beneath the stones, nurturing the dormant creature, and then the Time Lord witnessed the entity’s brutal birthing into society through the midwife catalyst of blood and hate one summer midnight.
The mayor’s daughter and the mummer.Conflict and intolerance.Inequality and oppression. These were the first emotions and concepts experienced by the alien life-form, experiences that shaped an emerging ego and appetites; that drew him from his chrysalis of stone.
The Doctor sensed the creature’s frustration: the environment was not right for this predator from the beyond. His full emergence would have to be postponed. Social strife was limited, the spirit of levelling far too undeveloped - there were no 160
wayward children to lead on a merry dance of dissolution. The being sensed his own weakness and lack of growth, and retreated until times were a changin’ enough for him to revel.
Until a time when anarchy was bursting the land at the seams and violence and division incited the monster once more to step from stone.
The Doctor spoke, and his words dissipated the images like soap bubbles popping in a sudden breeze.
‘Stop!’
He held out a gloved hand for emphasis. ‘I’ve seen enough, and still I don’t understand.’ His voice was husky with fear he could not control in the presence of this entity. It was a fear he felt only seldom, but which was all the more piquant for it. Yes, he feared this grey man from the fringes of nowhere, he feared what he might do with this world; that he might unravel it like a ball of wool, and think nothing of it. ‘Stop these pictures, and talk to me.
Why are you stirring such hatred among the people of this world?
What can you possibly hope to gain?’
The creature shimmered and receded to become a distant tiny figure lost on the bleak horizon of the reality-wound, then just as suddenly sprang into close-up mere yards from the Doctor, slowworms twining, eyes baleful. The transporting disorientated the Doctor so much he backed away, a weakness he realised the alien assumed to be obeisance before a more supreme presence. He let this vanity pass, and pressed forward with his questions.
Knowledge was the key, understanding would prove to be the solution. It always had been in the past. And the vanity of his opponents had always helped in supplying understanding, and in their subsequent downfall.
Even as the Doctor entertained these reassuring thoughts, he suddenly knew they would not apply this time.
He spoke out, regardless - just as he always had done in the face of alien terror.
‘Like I said: what can you hope to gain by this madness?
Already your tour is being manipulated by humans for their own 161
Machiavellian political ends. Is that what you want? The forces of repression have many subtle avenues and expressions, and all the newspapers are full of their successes. Successes created by your fiddling. You think you are creating disorder, whereas you are merely strengthening the hands of those who would crush your wayward children for ever.’
The Ragman smiled. He smiled,