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Voyages of Discovery (Chapter Six)
I promised an update today, and with the response to chapter five, I think I'd quite possibly be strung up by my toes if I missed my self-imposed deadline.
So, without further ado, let's see what the Doctor and Jacob are up to.
Previous Chapters
So, without further ado, let's see what the Doctor and Jacob are up to.
Previous Chapters
"When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right. When he states that something is impossible, he is very probably wrong."
Arthur C. Clarke
Two men sat on opposite sides of a round, oddly delicate stone table. Four low, eroded brick walls formed an informal room around them. Below and beyond, a lazy river snaked in a sea of yellow-green marsh grass. Four slight, graceful trees shook dark, waxy leaves in the breeze, dwarfed by the extending, dancing arms of ancient live oaks.
One of the men, bald and aged, with a snowy beard around his face, no mustache, and countless wrinkles tracing over his weathered face, chewed thoughtfully on his pipe and contemplated the board between them. He regarded his opponent. The other man appeared much younger, slightly built, with a mess of brown hair and brown eyes. His full attention was focused on a book he held open at arm's length, reading intently through dark rimmed glasses. After some long moments, the old man picked up a piece and moved it.
His companion flicked a quick glance at the board, adjusted his glasses on his nose, and made a quick series of five moves, retrieving several of his opponent's pieces and adding them to a growing stack on the side of the board. "King me," he said, and returned his attention to his book.
"Doctor," said Jacob in exasperation, "you can't keep doing that."
The Doctor looked up and gave his friend a puzzled look, then smiled and set his book down. "I'm only looking ahead three moves," he said amiably. "That gives you the advantage."
Jacob chewed his pipe again, full of unlit Refallan tobacco, a guilty pleasure and a gift from his friend, and shook his head. "How many possible outcomes to the game we're playing?"
"Right now? Six hundred and eighty. Six hundred and eighty-one if you count your getting annoyed and refusing to finish the game. Which I do."
"Wrong," said Jacob. "There is only one. You're going to win, again."
The Doctor looked hurt. "You get angry when I let you win, and angry when I don't. What do you want me to do?"
"Not be so good at draughts," said Jacob. "I suppose it's my own fault, playing with a man who can travel in time and see around corners. Perhaps we should play a game of pure chance? No, that wouldn't be any better, I suppose." He placed a piece atop the one that the Doctor had just moved. "I concede."
"That's the one," said the Doctor with a grin. "All right, then, what do you want to do now?"
"I'm going to go do what I ought to have been doing all along," said Jacob, standing and putting a hand in the middle of his back. "I am going to return to the camellias, who need my attention, and let you sink your nose into that book for a while longer. I suppose there's no chance you'll join me for prayers at None?"
It was a long argument, and both men were too entrenched in their positions and their regard for one another to budge or to take any offense. "I'll wait here," said the Doctor evenly. Jacob muttered something under his breath, collected his tools, and set off to tend his beloved garden.
--
Later that afternoon, Jacob was kneeling, removing some weeds from the base of one of the larger camellias when he heard the Doctor draw in a sharp breath behind him. "What is it?" he asked.
"Something odd," said the Doctor. "I can see timelines, patterns, and it's all muddled here, starting just when you picked that last weed." He wandered over, squatted, and plucked the plant in question from Jacob's growing pile. He put his glasses on and studied it intently.
Jacob looked up, puzzled. The garden was bathed in late afternoon sunlight, and carried its usual air of meditative peace. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, yet clearly the Doctor’s senses had picked up something lurking beyond the border of visible reality. His body was tense, like that of a wild animal sensing the approaching hooves of a predator as vibrations through the soil.
"What is it?" asked Jacob again, looking at the unremarkable bits of leaf and stem.
"I have no idea," said the Doctor. "It's not the plant. Thought it was. It happened just -- then." He replaced the bit of plant material into the refuse pile and stood, scanning the woods around them for an answer. "Something's coming," he said, in a low, ominous tone.
Jacob raised an eyebrow in disbelief. He had been long decades at this monastery, and the only remarkable thing that had come in that time, and frankly before that, was the Doctor himself.
Suddenly, the Doctor flinched as if he had been struck, hard, in the belly. Jacob stood as quickly as his aged knees would allow and came to his friend's side. The Doctor was half bent over, mouth open, staring at a point just past them, toward the stone table. Jacob's gaze followed and the smile of sudden, joyous recognition that blossomed on his face was as beautiful and serene as the dawn of time.
"You aren't real," rasped the Doctor, unsteadily rising to his full height, challenging the figure that stood in the forest.
The figure walked toward them, crossing the space between them with steps as unsteady as the Doctor's. At first, she seemed confused, or at least surprised to be here. Then she saw the Doctor, and an expression of relief and joy transformed her features.
"Doctor," Rose said, and the word left her mouth and caressed his face tenderly. He did not respond, simply stood, unmoving, straight as an arrow, head tilted back and away from her. She extended a hand in his direction.
He did not take the hand. "You're not real, whatever you are," he said in a loud, challenging voice. "I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you don't know -- how cruel this is. Get out of here."
Rose watched him with some confusion and let the hand drop. She looked questioningly at Jacob, who shrugged and gave her a winning smile. She came to Jacob, kissed him full on the lips, smiling at his startled expression, and hugged him tightly. "Oh Jacob, the best of friends." At last, she released him and stepped across to the Doctor, who watched her as warily as ever he had watched a Slitheen or a werewolf.
"I'm real," she said, "or at least I think I am."
He shook his head. "You're not. It's impossible," he said, flatly.
"I'm not impossible," she cried, and rushed forward, grabbing his arm and pinching him viciously.
He winced and pulled away. "Ow! That hurt. What the hell was that for?"
Her eyes blazed at him. "Don't tell me I'm not real again, you stupid, stupid git!" She flew at him again and wrapped her arms around him, crushing herself as close to him as she could manage. One foot came up off the ground and she half-mimed climbing upward, in her effort to be closer to him.
The Doctor's stunned face moved around, first to Jacob, still smiling to end the world, and then to the woman clasped to him. He inhaled, delicately, and found the familiar tendrils of her scent there. Impossible, his mind said. Rose, it's Rose, shouted his body and his hearts.
"It's really you," he said in wonder, letting his arms come up and around her. He blinked rapidly and shook his head back and forth. "How is it you, Rose?" She buried her face in his shoulder and then he realized she was crying. "Oh no, no, don't," he said, nudging her face upward and looking down at her with wonder. "This is supposed to be good, isn't it?" She nodded, still crying. He tried to summon a laugh. "I feel a little wrung out myself?" He ended the statement with a question mark and looked at her, his eyes flicking from her right eye to her left eye to nose to cheeks to ears to hair, and then his hearts leaped and he shouted out, pulling her up into the air and whirling her around in a circle, whooping like a madman.
Jacob, forgotten but still beaming, gathered his tools and retreated along the path to the main buildings, leaving the camellia tending for another day and the reunited couple to some privacy. He wiped a tear from his own eye and nodded his bald head in satisfaction, his white beard waving in the breeze.
Arthur C. Clarke
Two men sat on opposite sides of a round, oddly delicate stone table. Four low, eroded brick walls formed an informal room around them. Below and beyond, a lazy river snaked in a sea of yellow-green marsh grass. Four slight, graceful trees shook dark, waxy leaves in the breeze, dwarfed by the extending, dancing arms of ancient live oaks.
One of the men, bald and aged, with a snowy beard around his face, no mustache, and countless wrinkles tracing over his weathered face, chewed thoughtfully on his pipe and contemplated the board between them. He regarded his opponent. The other man appeared much younger, slightly built, with a mess of brown hair and brown eyes. His full attention was focused on a book he held open at arm's length, reading intently through dark rimmed glasses. After some long moments, the old man picked up a piece and moved it.
His companion flicked a quick glance at the board, adjusted his glasses on his nose, and made a quick series of five moves, retrieving several of his opponent's pieces and adding them to a growing stack on the side of the board. "King me," he said, and returned his attention to his book.
"Doctor," said Jacob in exasperation, "you can't keep doing that."
The Doctor looked up and gave his friend a puzzled look, then smiled and set his book down. "I'm only looking ahead three moves," he said amiably. "That gives you the advantage."
Jacob chewed his pipe again, full of unlit Refallan tobacco, a guilty pleasure and a gift from his friend, and shook his head. "How many possible outcomes to the game we're playing?"
"Right now? Six hundred and eighty. Six hundred and eighty-one if you count your getting annoyed and refusing to finish the game. Which I do."
"Wrong," said Jacob. "There is only one. You're going to win, again."
The Doctor looked hurt. "You get angry when I let you win, and angry when I don't. What do you want me to do?"
"Not be so good at draughts," said Jacob. "I suppose it's my own fault, playing with a man who can travel in time and see around corners. Perhaps we should play a game of pure chance? No, that wouldn't be any better, I suppose." He placed a piece atop the one that the Doctor had just moved. "I concede."
"That's the one," said the Doctor with a grin. "All right, then, what do you want to do now?"
"I'm going to go do what I ought to have been doing all along," said Jacob, standing and putting a hand in the middle of his back. "I am going to return to the camellias, who need my attention, and let you sink your nose into that book for a while longer. I suppose there's no chance you'll join me for prayers at None?"
It was a long argument, and both men were too entrenched in their positions and their regard for one another to budge or to take any offense. "I'll wait here," said the Doctor evenly. Jacob muttered something under his breath, collected his tools, and set off to tend his beloved garden.
--
Later that afternoon, Jacob was kneeling, removing some weeds from the base of one of the larger camellias when he heard the Doctor draw in a sharp breath behind him. "What is it?" he asked.
"Something odd," said the Doctor. "I can see timelines, patterns, and it's all muddled here, starting just when you picked that last weed." He wandered over, squatted, and plucked the plant in question from Jacob's growing pile. He put his glasses on and studied it intently.
Jacob looked up, puzzled. The garden was bathed in late afternoon sunlight, and carried its usual air of meditative peace. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, yet clearly the Doctor’s senses had picked up something lurking beyond the border of visible reality. His body was tense, like that of a wild animal sensing the approaching hooves of a predator as vibrations through the soil.
"What is it?" asked Jacob again, looking at the unremarkable bits of leaf and stem.
"I have no idea," said the Doctor. "It's not the plant. Thought it was. It happened just -- then." He replaced the bit of plant material into the refuse pile and stood, scanning the woods around them for an answer. "Something's coming," he said, in a low, ominous tone.
Jacob raised an eyebrow in disbelief. He had been long decades at this monastery, and the only remarkable thing that had come in that time, and frankly before that, was the Doctor himself.
Suddenly, the Doctor flinched as if he had been struck, hard, in the belly. Jacob stood as quickly as his aged knees would allow and came to his friend's side. The Doctor was half bent over, mouth open, staring at a point just past them, toward the stone table. Jacob's gaze followed and the smile of sudden, joyous recognition that blossomed on his face was as beautiful and serene as the dawn of time.
"You aren't real," rasped the Doctor, unsteadily rising to his full height, challenging the figure that stood in the forest.
The figure walked toward them, crossing the space between them with steps as unsteady as the Doctor's. At first, she seemed confused, or at least surprised to be here. Then she saw the Doctor, and an expression of relief and joy transformed her features.
"Doctor," Rose said, and the word left her mouth and caressed his face tenderly. He did not respond, simply stood, unmoving, straight as an arrow, head tilted back and away from her. She extended a hand in his direction.
He did not take the hand. "You're not real, whatever you are," he said in a loud, challenging voice. "I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you don't know -- how cruel this is. Get out of here."
Rose watched him with some confusion and let the hand drop. She looked questioningly at Jacob, who shrugged and gave her a winning smile. She came to Jacob, kissed him full on the lips, smiling at his startled expression, and hugged him tightly. "Oh Jacob, the best of friends." At last, she released him and stepped across to the Doctor, who watched her as warily as ever he had watched a Slitheen or a werewolf.
"I'm real," she said, "or at least I think I am."
He shook his head. "You're not. It's impossible," he said, flatly.
"I'm not impossible," she cried, and rushed forward, grabbing his arm and pinching him viciously.
He winced and pulled away. "Ow! That hurt. What the hell was that for?"
Her eyes blazed at him. "Don't tell me I'm not real again, you stupid, stupid git!" She flew at him again and wrapped her arms around him, crushing herself as close to him as she could manage. One foot came up off the ground and she half-mimed climbing upward, in her effort to be closer to him.
The Doctor's stunned face moved around, first to Jacob, still smiling to end the world, and then to the woman clasped to him. He inhaled, delicately, and found the familiar tendrils of her scent there. Impossible, his mind said. Rose, it's Rose, shouted his body and his hearts.
"It's really you," he said in wonder, letting his arms come up and around her. He blinked rapidly and shook his head back and forth. "How is it you, Rose?" She buried her face in his shoulder and then he realized she was crying. "Oh no, no, don't," he said, nudging her face upward and looking down at her with wonder. "This is supposed to be good, isn't it?" She nodded, still crying. He tried to summon a laugh. "I feel a little wrung out myself?" He ended the statement with a question mark and looked at her, his eyes flicking from her right eye to her left eye to nose to cheeks to ears to hair, and then his hearts leaped and he shouted out, pulling her up into the air and whirling her around in a circle, whooping like a madman.
Jacob, forgotten but still beaming, gathered his tools and retreated along the path to the main buildings, leaving the camellia tending for another day and the reunited couple to some privacy. He wiped a tear from his own eye and nodded his bald head in satisfaction, his white beard waving in the breeze.
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