The Tomb of Valdemar Read online

  TOMB OF VALDEMAR

  SIMON MESSINGHAM

  Published by BBC Worldwide Ltd,

  Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane

  London W12 OTT

  First published 2000

  Copyright © Simon Messingham 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted Original series broadcast on the BBC

  Format © BBC 1963

  Doctor Who and TARDIS are trademarks of the BBC

  ISBN 0 563 55591 2

  Imaging by Black Sheep, copyright © BBC 2000

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham Cover printed by Belmont Press Ltd, Northampton This book is dedicated to

  Julie, Alexander Kirk and to Mark and B’s new addition, Nina, born the day this book was completed.

  Acknowledgements due to Caz – invaluable; Mike, Stephanie and the lab; all at Tower C.

  Part One

  ‘When it had become customary to guard the entrance of houses and towns by an image of Janus, it might well be necessary to make the sentinel god look both ways, in order that nothing should escape his vigilant eye.’

  The Golden Bough

  Chapter One

  Janua Foris. God’s door. Their two-faced god, who looks both ways that nothing may escape his vigilant eye. And here you have to look both ways. The old woman would do well to remember that.

  Janua Foris: also the name of an inn. This inn, this shack of light and raucousness nailed into the skirts of the Harkasal Mountains, deep in the arctic tundra. Full of trappers; so many, gathered for the annual, grudging building of their community.

  The old woman does not drink. She seems barely capable of the action. Her eyes are fierce beneath the thick brown creases of her ancient skin. A white snood conceals half-glimpsed thick chestnut hair. She sits amongst them, smiling, seemingly amused by the attention.

  All eyes are on her. Ponch, despite a lifetime’s familiarity, can barely remember the names of the other trappers. He notes, almost unconsciously, how they lick their lips, wondering if she has anything worth stabbing for. Whether she will live long enough to be murdered. She’s old, ancient.

  Perhaps even as much as thirty cycles.

  The stars had been shedding snow when he came in sight of the Janua Foris, far below on the icy plain.

  He was a mass of skins; blubbery hides cut from the backs of the snow creatures that roam this wilderness. Narbeagles to ur-mink, ice-whales to tiny furred rattlers, Ponch has the upcoming autumn to scrape and tan these hides, ready for the impossible winter. Six months of working with other trappers, any of whom might take his life for the barest of reasons. Behind him, a threadbare pony lay frozen in the snow banks, buried by Ponch, along with his improbably large sled full of more skins ready for the Gathering.

  Journey’s end. Ponch had urged his frozen legs down towards that tiny shack, its single plume of smoke twisting in the horizontal winds. A wind that shrieks and sends the rapidly settling icy flecks hammering at a man’s face.

  Once there, after making the sign of Janua, he had hauled open the door. The effluence and smoke drove Ponch almost bodily back out into the eternal snow. The stench! It had been many months since such a concentration of odours had assaulted his flared, frost-bitten nostrils. Ponch remembers reeling, tears streaming filthy tracks over his bearded cheeks.

  The air boiled with tobacco, ale, hot breath and worse.

  It was good to be back.

  ‘Camr’ale!’ sings Ponch, after his third beaker of this thick, brackeny brew, ‘Camr’ale! Let it stay in the guts ’til the Third Age!’

  None present listen; all are drunk. Soon it will be the time of uneasiness, that season of togetherness when the cold air of the settlement heaves with the tearing of leather and the curses of straining men. Of murder in back corners. And the Gathering.

  The new town they have grudgingly come together to build this year, as every year, is not really a community, or if it is, is of a base and suspicious kind. This is a town grown organically of necessity, when men whose instincts are for self-preservation are forced to rely upon the skills of each other. When money, that one true universal binding force, can only be conjured through the alchemy of togetherness.

  None like it, but all play their part. The skins, the fur, the hides, how they hate this commodity. Yet it must be done.

  For what else does this life have for them?

  Not to say that daggers won’t be drawn, that rough and tumble of a frightening brutality won’t spill out of the camr’ale; it is expected. Still, at this moment, the novelty of other people is enough to warm them, to enjoy.

  And tonight, another is amongst them. Strangers here are so rare that Ponch must search for the noun itself, his eyes blurring as they take in that too-intense thing: human features not worn smooth into the grooves of his memory.

  Such abstract concepts as beauty are entirely unknown to Ponch and his cronies. However, some ancient, long-buried race memory remains sufficiently embedded for him to realise that this hag must once have been beautiful. He clutches the idol of Janua, weighted on a string around his throat.

  ‘So it comes to this,’ the old woman says in a rich, rounded voice.

  It must be the camr’ale but something in that voice speaks to Ponch of faraway places, of lives distant and denser than his scratching existence. A subtone so delicate he lacks the vocabulary to interpret it.

  ‘Watch your tongue, hag,’ snaps bearded Ofrin, a giant trapper known for his extreme viciousness in a place where viciousness is always extreme. ‘If you want to keep it.’

  The old woman turns upon Ofrin a gaze of such withering intensity that even he pales, and sinks down to his drink. ‘I have come a long way to talk to you,’ she says. ‘Further than you can imagine.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asks Ponch, feeling his guts churn.

  How could an old woman make him feel so uneasy, so small?

  ‘You will learn.’

  Ofrin points a shaky finger. ‘Perhaps you mean to steal our furs.’

  There is a general slamming of tankards on benches at this. Ofrin has crossed the line. One does not speak of the furs in this way. Not out in the open.

  ‘Where did you say you were from?’ asks Ponch again, captivated by this woman.

  ‘I didn’t.’ Once more, the gaze turns to him. ‘I like you,’ she says. ‘You still have something. Ponch.’

  Cause for general hilarity. Ponch is hot. He cools himself in the camr’ale.

  ‘Where have you come from? The tribe beyond the mountains?’

  More general hilarity. All remember the settlement beyond the mountains. How two seasons ago they marched over and burned it to the ground.

  ‘Not exactly. You could say I come from the sky.’

  ‘That’s stupid.’

  ‘Really? Any more stupid than believing the sky is a liquid wherein the clouds hang suspended?’

  ‘It is! Woman, you are mad. Begone!’ Someone hurls a tankard. Its foaming trajectory arcs towards her head.

  Quickly, quicker than light, the woman raises an arm and her browned fingers grip the cup as if it has found its natural resting place. The liquid within does not move.

  The Janua Foris is silent. Carved icons of their god stare impassively. It is as if the woman is looking into Ponch, into all of them. He knows she can see his soul, that she knows all that he is.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispers, feeling for the first time that he is in the presence of something, someone, greater than himself. Greater than the world.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she whispers, still with that enigmatic smile touching her lips. ‘I’m someone who’s come to tell you a story. The most important story you’ll ever hear. That’s who I am. And you are my
audience. I am going to tell you the story of Valdemar.’

  Ponch freezes, he knows not why. It is as if a black breath has blown over the tavern. He notes how the others are crossing themselves. He can’t think why but he does it himself.

  ‘Why does that trouble you?’ she asks. ‘What could you possibly know of Valdemar?’

  ‘Don’t say that name!’ shrieks Ponch. ‘Just... don’t say it.’

  ‘Aye, keep it shut,’ growls Ofrin.

  The old woman shrugs, and smiles again. ‘I can’t very well tell you the story unless I do mention the name. It’s a major component.’

  ‘It’s a made-your-component,’ comes a mocking voice from the back. ‘We don’t want to hear your stupid story anyway.’

  ‘Aye, whoever made money out of telling stories?’

  The woman pauses, taking in the crowd. Ponch knows that despite himself he’ll do whatever she wants. She makes him feel sad, makes him feel he has missed out on so much. That his life up to now has meant so little.

  ‘I’m going to tell you and you’re going to listen. Partly because... well, to be honest, I’m dying and I want to do this thing before the end, but mainly because it’s in your interest.

  It’s time for the blinkers to come off. Because you will learn...’

  ‘I’ll tell you who Valdemar is. Or was. Are you sitting comfortably?’

  There is a rush for the bar.

  ‘Is it true then, this story?’ Ponch is interested, at least for tonight. It’s better than killing each other. A chorus of tankards slams on to the bench. He’s not the only one.

  ‘Pretty much. Although I have taken it upon myself to improvise when the occasion demands.’

  ‘You’ve told it before then?’

  ‘More than you can imagine. Look.’ From the folds of her fur coat, the woman produces a small, soft rectangle of leaves. Ponch sees her face wince in aged effort. ‘This is a book.’

  ‘Book?’

  ‘Of stories.’ She places the ‘book’ on the sodden table. ‘Let’s begin.’

  ‘Hurry up, before you die, old woman.’ Ofrin again. She ignores the remark. She spreads her withered hands out in the air, describing a huge circle.

  ‘Long ago, longer than you can imagine, in another place, there was Valdemar. A god, said some; a devil, others. A vast black creature of unimaginable powers who spread his great black wings across a whole sector of this galaxy...’

  ‘Galaxy?’

  ‘Don’t interrupt while I’m speaking, I’ll lose my thread.

  Whole stars were swallowed up by his being; races altered and changed to become his acolytes. It was said that one glimpse of Valdemar was enough to drive a man mad, that his eyes would burn and his head would pop...’

  ‘Like me!’ roars Ofrin, bringing his giant hands together in a crushing motion. ‘Starting with lying old witches! Ha ha ha!’

  ‘I can do without the heckling. Try and keep up, there isn’t much time.’

  ‘Time for what?’ asks Ponch.

  ‘Don’t confuse me with details. As I was saying, Valdemar’s reign spread throughout the gala-lands. Nothing could withstand his mighty wrath. Except one man...’

  ‘Heard it!’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’

  ‘Who was the man?’

  ‘Ah! A very special man, almost as powerful as Valdemar in his own way. I only knew him for a short time, very short, but it was a time I would never forget. Ever. He was a traveller, a man of great good. And occasionally of insufferable manners.

  A man who could travel anywhere, any time. Interfering, making a nuisance of himself, helping people to see that which they needed to see. People like you lot.’

  ‘How could he travel anywhere, any time?’

  ‘He had a box. And he travelled inside this box. You see, the box was a magical box. A big blue box, small on the outside but inside as big as a mountain!’

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Ofrin asks Ponch.

  Ponch feels tears touching his cheeks, tears he hadn’t noticed before. He looks through blurred eyes at his fellow trapper. ‘I don’t know. It must be the magic. I just love hearing about magic.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Ofrin shakes his head.

  ‘Of course, he didn’t travel alone. He had friends, those that others would term companions. People he trusted. A concept I understand you find difficult to credit. At this particular moment, there were two of these companions. One, a very beautiful woman...’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ As before, much hilarity and elbow jogging.

  ‘Nothing like that. And put those thoughts of your mind.

  This is a clean story.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Her name was Romanadvoratelundar...’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘It’s a story; names have to be as magical as anything else.

  You may call her Romana.’

  ‘Romana.’ Ponch repeats the word. The name is elegant, cool, charming. The very opposite of his. He starts to think that he will like this story.

  ‘And the other companion?’ asks Ofrin.

  ‘Ah. Now the other. This one was a dog. But no ordinary dog. No. This dog was made of metal.’

  ‘A metal dog? What? Get off.’

  ‘Called K-9.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  The room is in uproar. ‘How does that work then?’ ... ‘Does she think we’re a bunch of kids?’ ... ‘It’s a man in a box...’

  ‘I thought you said it was true?’ asks Ponch.

  ‘Apart from the lies, absolutely. Don’t trouble yourself over the metal dog. It never goes down very well. It’s not in the story that much.’

  ‘Good. Hold on...’

  The old woman smiles. For the first time, she realises that perhaps she has their attention. ‘You have a question.

  Ponch?’

  Ponch feels the weight of silence between him, the woman and the expectant trappers. ‘You’ve told us the dog’s name, and this Romanerverandah whatever it is...’

  ‘Hmm...’

  ‘What about the traveller? What do we call him?’

  ‘Not what. Who.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Doctor. That was his name.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘ Doctor...’

  ‘Who?’

  Chapter Two

  Stories within stories. How do you unravel the Doctor?

  Perhaps even he himself could not.

  Few, if any, see correctly. There are too many realities, great shifting tectonic plates of time and space, of outside and in, in the soul of a man. Only when these points converge, touch fleetingly, does chance provide an insight, a reflection of what, or who, one is.

  Let’s roll up our sleeves and start here.

  I like to think, at the beginning at least, of the Doctor at home. What he calls home.

  The TARDIS. I have called it a blue box, but it is called the TARDIS. Where the plates grind together. Where everything becomes one.

  At this point in space, at this moment in time, the Doctor is moving. He is bound up in a larger story, a greater narrative he calls the search for the Key to Time – six segments of a greater whole (again) that need convergence. He has one, he needs five more. So you see, we may never know exactly where or when we are truly at the beginning.

  (‘What is this?’ bellows Ofrin. ‘What are you talking about?

  If I wanted a sermon I’d have gone to the shaman.’

  ‘All right, all right, calm down. Beginnings are hard. I’m doing my best. I’ll switch the style. Something less pompous, how about that?’

  ‘Whatever...’)

  See the Doctor, at the central console of the TARDIS, wild hair bobbing, ridiculous iridescent scarf swirling as he twists and wrestles with incomprehensible controls.

  There is a noise, a disordered jumble of shrieks and whistles. Has something gone wrong? Is there a problem with the console?

  No. Not this time. It’s the Doctor. He is singing.

  Much to the irri
tation of the refined Romana, who has learned much already in her time here. She is studying the first segment, perhaps wondering just what she has let herself in for. It lies on a small white table, its angular wrongness only barely positioning its mass on the teak.

  Its very shape is a quandary; it is a building block, something that slots. It fascinates her, its bland functionality hinting at something beyond her perception. If she could just concentrate, locate the segment’s meaning which dangles, hovers, just out of reach. Just concentrate...

  And then the whistles and squawks ruin everything.

  ‘Doctor?’ she asks, her voice confident and haughty, refined by decades of study at the Academy on Gallifrey.

  ‘Mmm...’ (Not much of an opening line, I’ll grant you, but somehow he pulls it off.)

  ‘Must you?’

  ‘Must I what?’ he asks innocently.

  ‘Emit that atonal racket.’

  His eyes bulge (like all interesting heroes there is a touch of the cartoon, the grotesque, the over-the-top about his hyperactive manner). ‘Atonal racket? Atonal racket? That’s Ppiffer’s Second Ode to the Cepholan Whale! In E minor! One of the most beautiful atonal rackets in the universe.’

  ‘The Cepholans have three larynxes, you only one. Please stop it immediately.’

  She knows he is glaring at her as she returns to her study of the segment.

  The Doctor is glaring all right, wondering once again how the White Guardian has lumbered him with such an unsuitable companion. All right, she acquitted herself reasonably well on Ribos, but there was unquestionably more than the usual amount of luck involved. If it hadn’t been for him...

  And she is young, far too young for such a serious matter as the Key to Time. He really can’t see this working.

  ‘To have tried and failed, Romana, is nobler than to have never tried at all. You Academics – not an ounce of initiative between you.’