Doctor Who_ Wooden Heart - Martin Day [9]
THREE
The sun rose into the ocean-blue sky, a burning disk that ignited thin streamers of cloud on the horizon. The light picked out the edges of distant purple mountains, the ripples in the great grey lake, the tips of the angular trees as they shook in the early morning breeze. The entire forest, at night a shapeless and still slab of interlocking darkness and shadow, began to stir. A deer appeared between the trees and looked around nervously before making its way to the lake’s edge to drink.
The burning ribbons of cloud appeared to reach out towards the village, where they merged with the elongated garlands of scarlet that fluttered from the flagpoles and the arched bridges.
Breathing deeply, Saul gripped the rough wooden handrail, as if the sheer beauty of the scene would overwhelm him. The splashing, impossibly clear waters that cascaded beneath the bridge seemed unfathomable, unanswerable, yet they pointed to something beyond Saul’s everyday life. He knew neither the river’s source, nor its eventual outflow into some larger body of water – for some people, merely having the river running beneath their feet would be enough. They would savour the moment, or use it as part of the fabric to dress their mundane lives. But Saul wanted more.
Saul always wanted more.
Everyday life did eventually disturb Saul’s thoughts, though he did not resent the intrusion. He was usually the first to rise, but this morning he’d only had a few minutes to himself before he’d heard the rattle of shutters and the creak of doors. He glanced over at the square at the heart of the village and could see children playing in the dewy grass before breakfast; elsewhere adults were emerging to feed animals or check the fields.
Saul smiled. Just for a moment it was possible to imagine that everything was all right, that the day would be uninterrupted by grief and loss. However, as Saul turned on the bridge to head back home, he glimpsed again the lake to the north. The water was the colour of slate, and mist was just beginning to form at its edge, obscuring the tiny, mysterious island at the lake’s centre. The fog, thick and knotted like old rope, began to expand even as Saul watched it. This wasn’t fog that the rising sun could burn away.
This wasn’t normal fog at all.
Saul turned his back on the lake and the island, making his way down to a stony area at the side of the river. He was carrying a painted ceramic pitcher on his back, looped around his shoulders with long strips of black leather, and he spent a few moments dropping this down and into the clear water. It wasn’t much, but then the old woman needed little to get her through the day. It would suffice.
Pushing the wooden stopper into place, he hefted the pitcher onto his back, and set off for the woman’s house. It was at the edge of the village, its sloping roof only just catching the light of the sun. The Dazai’s house was angled away from most of its neighbours, its doorway opening not onto the village but onto the forest. It made sure that every visitor actually intended to see her; no one passed by on their way somewhere else.
Saul knocked on the door, setting the pitcher down on its flattened base. When the Dazai slid back the door, he bowed low. ‘Good morning,’ he said simply.
The Dazai bowed in return. ‘My blessings to you, child.’ Her voice crackled like dead leaves and dry wood. ‘You have brought my water?’
‘As always, noble Dazai.’
‘I am honoured. You are like a son to me, Saul. Would you like to come in?’
Every morning, without fail, the Dazai made the same offer. He only ever accepted when there was something on his mind. ‘If I may…?’
‘Of course.’ Despite being bent double with age, the Dazai picked up the water pitcher effortlessly and shuffled inside. Saul followed the old woman into a perfectly square room with a large bookcase dominating one wall. A wooden table and four chairs