Doctor Who_ The City of the Dead - Lloyd Rose [103]
Obviously, too good to be true.
Food appeared each morning on the table, or possibly it was the same food, retaining its freshness from day to day. The repast was simple: bread, some fruit, a plate of cheese, a bowl of milk. The plate and bowl were dark-blue stoneware. The cheese varied: on some mornings it resembled Stilton, on others Cheddar, and every now and then looked like something slightly more exotic such as a double-creme or a goat cheese. The Doctor wasn't sure because he never ate any. Nor did he sample the bread or various fruits, or drink any of the milk. In situations like this, eating was almost never a good idea.
Not that there was the slightest sense of danger. He didn't recall ever feeling safer. The Doctor didn't mind this. He had lived too long and been battered too much to scorn peace. It was rarer than threat, harder to find, harder still to keep. He was the recipient here of a great gift. Nonetheless, for all his appreciation, he needed to find out who had bestowed it on him.
Of course, he might have arranged all this hospitality for himself. But he doubted it.
He was healing. That much was clear. His first several& days? weeks?& had been spent in a voluptuous, ravishing sleep that had gathered him jealously to itself whenever he ventured towards wakefulness - and each time he had fallen gladly, unresisting, back into its dark arms.What exactly had happened to him at the hands of the creatures in the swamp remained, probably fortunately, unclear. But he seemed to recall that they had made a good start on tearing him limb from limb. He'd known they'd react like that.
Something about his very presence always annoyed those sorts of beings.
It wasn't anything he did - he just got on their nerves. He'd tried to tell Rust.
And what was Rust doing now? Whatever it was, the Doctor was sure it was something he ought to be stopping.
He wanted to run away to the mountains. Every day he climbed to the top of the waterfall, through the glittering, rainbow-shot spray, and looked out across that beckoning vista. Mysteries and discoveries, wonders and revelations lay among those peaks. He knew this. His longing for them was so fierce it was almost a physical pain. But every day he climbed down again to the cottage. If he returned after dark, a fire always awaited him, its warm light lambent on the hearth. Some nights he felt a pathetic gratitude for this.
He waited. He knew that sooner or later his host, piqued by the lack of appreciation for his or her generosity, would make an appearance. He didn't eat. He didn't go to the mountains. And the days, or whatever they were, passed.
One evening he saw a rabbit in the room - a large, sturdy-looking black animal with glossy fur. It was crouched on the hearth, rather like a cat, head turned sideways, watching him out of one green eye.When he approached, it was suddenly no longer there. A few nights after that he thought he spotted a white owl drifting across the moon. He continued to wait.
The plate of food took to appearing on a stool beside his bed, the first thing he saw when he woke. After he had ignored the plate for several mornings, it was replaced by the bowl of milk. He ignored that, too. One morning, instead of milk, the bowl was filled with wine. The Doctor laughed but didn't touch it.
'Come out and talk to me,' he said.
No response. That evening, the bowl was back on the table and piled high with chocolate-chip ice cream. The Doctor thought that was playing dirty and said so. He resisted the ice cream but kept an eye on it until he went to bed. It didn't melt.
The next evening the ice cream was boysenberry ripple. The Doctor mentally saluted his opponent's tactics,