Doctor Who_ The Tomorrow Windows Part 6

Tydran stepped into the duel circle. 'I am the Khali champion.'

One of the Jhander tribe joined him in the circle. 'I am the Jhander champion.'

'Then let the duel begin!'

Immediately each member of the Khali tribe pulled a set of bongos out of their robes and struck up a rapid rhythm.

The Jhander tribe did likewise, shaking their maracas.

Tydran took a deep breath and began to rotate his right foot into the sand, twisting it to and fro. Then, hands on hips, he gyrated his midriff.

His opponent had chosen a less obvious gambit. He shook his body while outstretching one arm and bringing it back over his head in a wave motion before repeating the action with his other arm.

Tydran knew he would have to come up with something audacious. He outstretched his right arm in a dramatic pointing gesture, above and to the right, his left hand on his hips. Then he pointed to the ground to his left.

There was an intake of awestruck breath. The eyes of the Jhander tribe widened in fear.

In desperation Tydran's opponent made a series of gestures, as though describing the dimensions of first a big box, and then a little box, but it was too late. Tydran crouched and started to move his knees together and apart while crossing and uncrossing his arms over them.

The Jhander tribe fell silent. They knew when they were beaten.

Tydran strode to the centre of the circle. As he raised his hands, a wind rose from nowhere and a golden, shimmering shaft beamed down from the night 36 sky, illuminating a figure seated upon a throne of sapphire.

Its head revolved to reveal the face of a camel.

The figure's voice made the ground tremble. 'I am your G.o.d!'

Tydran squinted at the figure. 'h.e.l.lo?'

'You have a conflict between your tribes?'

'Well, yes,' said Tydran. 'But we've sorted it out now '

'I shall help you resolve it!'

'Oh,' said Tydran. 'That's nice.'

The figure rose from its throne, reached into a belt-pouch and withdrew a knife. It was a knife unlike any Tydran had ever seen. So long, so thin, it would be quite useless for carving. 'You shall use this to settle your dispute.'

'What?'

The figure looked around. 'Use this to settle your dispute!'

'You mean,' said Tydran, 'we should have an eating compet.i.tion?'

'No,' sighed the figure.

The Jhander champion stepped forward. 'We have a contest to see who can throw it the furthest?'

'No.'

One of Tydran's fathers said, 'Maybe if we painted a target on a tree '

'No,' said the figure. 'What you do is, you stick it in your enemy!'

'You do what?' said Tydran.

'You take this sword,' the figure told them. 'And you kill them with it.'

'Kill our enemies? Are you sure? Seems a bit drastic.'

The figure's shoulders sagged. 'What do you normally do?'

'Well, normally we have a bit of a dance '

'There shall be no more dancing here!'

A hesitant Tydran took the knife. 'Well, if you're sure. . . ' He looked at the Jhander champion, and took an uncertain step forward.

As one, the Khali tribe slapped at their bongos.

'What are you doing?' said the figure.

The bongos halted, embarra.s.sed.

'We always have music when we're having a duel,' explained Tydran.

'Not any more you don't.' The figure turned its camel-face upon Tydran.

'Well, what are you waiting for?'

Tydran gulped and, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his face, aimed the point of the knife at the champion's chest and shoved. The skin burst surprisingly easily and its contents were pulpy and wet, like a riverfruit. The champion's eyes widened as he fell backwards into the sand.

Tydran looked at the knife, shocked. It was coated in blood. As it dripped on to his hand he felt its warmth and stickiness. Tydran dropped the knife and 37 staggered back, staring wide-eyed at the body. What had he done?

'That's it,' said the figure. 'You're getting the hang of it now.'

38.

Chapter Three.

Only G.o.d Can Save Us Now

The town is a ruin, the buildings hollowed-out hulks. Roofs lie open to the relentless downpour, their timbers exposed like ribcages. The only sounds are the rap of hail upon my canvas shelter and the buzz of electric cables.

Yes, this place is as miserable as I feel.

Martin returns, his spectacles smeared, his hair plastered to his forehead.

He has with him two locals, a man and a woman, cloaked in filthy sacks.

'Our transport!' Martin announces, wide-eyed like a terrier that's been at the coffee, indicating a wooden cart dragged behind a creature about the size of a cow. Its snout probes at the muck as it lolls forward upon six stumps.

'You're not impressed?'

I'm too cold and tired and p.i.s.sed-off to complain. 'It'll do.' I squelch my way over to the cart and climb in. The locals join me and gather up the reins.

'Couldn't you have tele-doored us a bit nearer wherever it is?'

'Better to arrive incognito, less disruption,' says Martin as he swings himself on to the back of the tumbril. The woman tugs the reins and the cart jolts forward.

A few seconds later, for no apparent reason, the local man claps his hands on his cheeks. Slap, slap. He grimaces in pain as each strike reawakens old bruises. His companion then pa.s.ses him the reins and repeats the ritual.

I stare at them, wondering why they're doing it.

'Self-pummelling,' says Martin, as if in response to my unspoken question.

'The people of this world believe they are guilty of the sin of being born.'

'That's. . . original. And they hurt themselves as a penance?'

'No. Just to make themselves feel even more bad about it,' grins Martin.

'They'll then proceed with mutual pummelling.'

'Why?'

'As a penance for the indulgence of self-pummelling.'

The two villagers begin to slap each other on the cheeks. Like some sort of mad, sado-m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic Benny Hill routine. I'd laugh if it wasn't so pathetic.

Once finished, the man offers me an upturned palm. I notice that he's missing his little finger.

39.'No, I'm all right,' I say. 'Feel bad enough already.' Though a few slaps here and there might help to warm me up a bit.

Martin laughs.

'What is it?'

'Nothing, sorry, nothing.' Martin covers his giggling mouth. 'Private joke.'

The cart steers through a twisted iron gate and the mud beneath our wheels gives way to cobbles. Looking into the sky, I see dirigibles trapped in search-lights and tethered to pylons. Like something from the Blitz.

The town is a clutter of terraced buildings, their plaster cracked, their windows shuttered. We pa.s.s more villagers, huddling into their robes, splashing through the downpour and slapping their cheeks. Oddly, they are all missing their little fingers too. Several are moving in the same direction as us, holding spark-dripping flambeaux.

'Where are we heading for, again?' I ask.

Martin points, and as he does, lightning illuminates the cloud-laden sky.

Rising over the rooftops is the silhouette of an immense, daunting edifice.

My first impression is that it's a monument, because it portrays a figure seated upon a high-backed throne. Although its features have eroded, I can make out a beard and two blank eyes. One arm rests in its lap, the other points into the distance.

As we draw closer, however, I realise that it's not merely a statue. There are steep, arched, doorways set into its base and slit windows flickering with flame. Gargoyles perch upon its parapets and rainwater cascades down its walls.

It's a vast cathedral, more than twenty storeys tall, carved into the image of a G.o.d.

Another lightning flash illuminates it, catching its features. Its seems to come to life, its expression fierce in condemnation, its mouth open in mid-shout.

'The church of the great prophet Moop,' Martin announces.

'In about four hours?' said Fitz, shivering. His boots squelched as he picked his way through the brambles.

He'd been on some lousy planets in his time, but this one took the biscuit.

Fetid moor stretched away into the night in every direction, its monotony broken by jagged, black crags surfacing from its depths like, well, jagged, black craggy sea creatures or something. Brooks of steaming mud slapped and gulped. 'You leave these things a bit to the last minute, don't you?'

Charlton trudged behind Fitz. 'It's a last-ditch attempt.'

'Often the best approach,' agreed the Doctor. 'Why waste time, when you can do it all in a mad rush?'

40.They were heading for a dome-shaped structure exposed upon a hummock.

At first Fitz had thought it some sort of lookout post, as it would have an unbroken view for a dozen miles in every direction. As they drew nearer, Fitz realised the building was watching them approach. One side of it had been built into the likeness of a camel's head.

'It's fascinating, isn't it?' shouted the Doctor over the howl of the wind.

Fitz followed with less enthusiasm. 'Very.'

The steps wound around the hill. Each side of the structure had the face of an animal, fuzzed with lichen but still recognisable. There was the beady-eyed face of an eagle, or parrot, and the face of a terrier, its jaws open as though expecting a ball to be thrown. And, strangest of all, a gasping fish.

They reached the shelter of the doorway. As Fitz and Charlton recovered their breath, the Doctor gazed out across the wasteland, the breeze ruffling his mane of hair. His lips curled into an aloof smile but his eyes were filled with sadness. 'Some sort of iconographic warning,' he observed. 'Designed to deter the unwary traveller.'

'You don't say,' said Fitz. 'So not a Wimpy bar?'

The Doctor looked at Fitz, not getting the joke, then pulled a small, flashing device from his coat pocket. The device stuttered as the Doctor circled, holding it before him like a wand. 'The level of radiation is rather high.'

'Radiation?' Fitz huddled into the doorway beside the Doctor. It was a relief to be out of the wind and the rain, but his ears felt raw from the cold. 'Will we be OK?'

'As long as we're not here for more than four hours,' said the Doctor. 'Why have you brought us here, Charlton?'