Doctor Who_ Wooden Heart - Martin Day [51]
And, within moments, Ben Abbas was in hell.
Martha approached Petr and his younger brother. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked, impatiently. She hadn’t risked life and limb to save Saul from the monster in the forest just to sit in a hut all night.
Petr looked back at her, uncertain. ‘The Dazai says that since she moved everyone in here no child has gone missing.’
Martha remembered the Doctor talking about the blank pages in the Dazai’s books. If there was only so much memory to go round, it might account for the creatures at the forest’s edge. They were there to prevent Saul or anyone else from travelling too far. It might also make sense of the strictures that the village had always placed on Saul – a traveller, a questing spirit, prevented from exploring too deeply into the forest, or from travelling to the centre of the lake at all. It might even explain the fog, and the disappearing children, and how everything seemed to have stabilised since the villagers had gathered in the great hall. In going into the forest, Martha, Saul and Petr had also been pushing at the boundaries of this world; now they had returned, and everything had stabilised.
Still, Martha wasn’t prepared to just wait for the Doctor to sort things out from his end. She had to do something – she had to find out what had happened to all the children. She couldn’t stand looking at the empty, drained faces of Kristine and Sara, and having only meaningless words to offer them in return.
She wasn’t sure how much she could share with the others – about the fog, and the borders of their enclosed world, and the disappearances. And, even if she could convince them of these things, whether it would help or hinder their progress towards a solution to their problem.
‘There must be a way to get the children back,’ suggested Martha carefully.
Petr seemed unconvinced. ‘We should attend to the torches, get as much sleep as we can – wait for daybreak.’
Martha imagined that the more people that slept, the more likely the world was to shut down entirely. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ she said firmly – adding, in her own mind, for me at least.
The Dazai came over, her stick clicking on the flagstones. ‘The girl may be right,’ she said firmly. ‘After the Doctor departed I consulted the legends – the source material, you might say, not what we remember of them.’ She raised a quivering hand to forestall any objections. ‘I know some of us do not accept that folk tales and ancient curses have any bearing on our lives,’ she said, ‘but consider what has happened so far. Our children have disappeared in the fog, and now they are returning – returning to enquire how well we treated them. Returning, as if to judge us: Are we fit parents? Are we fit to live? It all conforms to the tales we have told for generations. And, even if we choose not to accept the prophecies, the stories say that the fate of our village hangs in the balance.’
Martha stared out of the window, watching shapes moving through the fog. Martha blinked – just for a moment, she could have sworn she’d seen a boy, juggling shadows, but when she looked again it was just a curl of fog, animated only by a breath of wind.
‘The stories may be a… reverse echo… of all that we have seen,’ said the Dazai. ‘And what may yet come to pass.’
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Martha again. She hadn’t properly met the Dazai before, but she was impressed by the old woman’s forthright, businesslike manner. Martha remembered the last time she’d seen her father’s granny – a shrivelled old bean of a woman, mahogany-coloured and hat-wearing, but refusing to be dictated to by medical infirmity or wheelchair. The Dazai, the spiritual and philosophical heart of the village, reminded Martha of that old woman who, even when surrounded by death, was never less than full of life.
‘There is something we can do,’ said the Dazai firmly.
‘Go back to the forest?’ suggested Martha hopefully. ‘The Doctor disappeared there, and I was thinking…’