Chapter 7
The Mystery Unfolds
The Doctor unrolled a map of the
“Well, colleagues.” he said cheerfully, “this is
Zoë and Mathew bent over the map. “Are you sure that’s not a fly spot,” said Mathew with a grin. The Doctor laughed and shook his head. “No, Mathew, it’s definitely
“But what makes it so mysterious?” asked Zoë, raising her eyes from the map.
The Doctor chuckled. “You’ll see for yourself, Zoë; just be patient. But a few words before we depart.” He gave Mathew a long, hard, no-nonsense look.
“See this,” he said and gripped a green lever next to the door. “It’s to open and close the door,” he demonstrated the opening and closing of the door by rocking the lever back and forth; “the green keyhole is to start the engine; and the red keyhole is to stop it; the blue handles control our ascent and descent; and the yellow lever controls our speed in any direction. So in an emergency you’ll know how to fly the airship yourself. Are there any questions?”
“What are we waiting for?” shouted Mathew; he was very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and raring to go.
The Doctor laughed quietly to himself and turned the ignition key to On; the engines began to hum like an angry swarm of bumblebees.
“Just a few more instructions while the engines warm up, and then we’ll be off like a bird into the wide blue yonder.”
“You should remain in your seat and buckled up if the warning light comes on; in the event that we need oxygen, an oxygen mask will drop from the overhead compartment; in the event that we are forced to ditch into the water, an inflatable raft will be automatically deployed.” He droned on and on.
“Finally,” said the Doctor, lifting a strange-looking weapon from a gun rack near the door, “this is a cosmic ray-gun, and that standing next to it a laser gun. They are extremely dangerous, Mathew!” Zoë grinned. The Doctor then removed the cosmic ray-gun from the gun rack and proceeded to point out some of its features that they needed to know to make it operational and for their own safety.
“If you need to use it, just release the safety-catch,” he said and rotated the lever next to the trigger from red to green. “Then simply point the weapon at your target and pull the trigger. The battery holds enough energy for one thousand death blasts. And four thousand stun blasts. Avoid the death blast if you can help it, Mathew.”
“Remember,” he added with a stern expression on his face. “This weapon was designed for self defence, to save your life and that of your colleagues. But remember this: You do not always have to kill; you can stun instead, the choice is yours. ”
“See these words here,” said the Doctor, pointing immediately above the trigger guard.
“Yes,” said Zoë and Mathew, “It’s the words stun and kill.” Zoë volunteered. The Doctor nodded smartly and continued.
“The weapon operates on two power settings: low power is to stun the enemy into unconsciousness, just move this lever to stun; and high power to kill, just move the lever to kill. Whichever of these power settings you choose is up to your own judgement.” The Doctor carefully replaced the safety catch and returned the weapon to the rack.
“The laser gun operates on exactly the same principle as the cosmic ray gun; they both rely on electromagnetic energy; however, the beam that the laser gun generates has a longer wavelength.” Mathew’s eyes rolled longingly; he was going to get his hands on the ray gun as soon as possible.
“Does the kill setting always kill?” asked Zoë.
“I’m afraid so, Zoë,” said the Doctor. “If you choose stun, your enemy will be rendered unconscious for at least twenty minutes, then recover with no more than a bad headache. But if you choose kill, your adversary would be totally obliterated into time and space, even if the ray only grazes his clothing.”
“What do you mean by ‘obliterated into time and space?’” asked Zoë.
“That’s easy,” said Mathew cutting-in. “Don’t you read English Scientist? The sods are disintegrated into atoms and blasted into another point in time and space, and even possibly into a parallel universe, at the speed of light. They’re as dead as mutton the moment they appear in front of the cross-hairs.” Mathew ginned cold-heartedly. Having finished his very abridged explanation, he settled into his flying seat and looked exceedingly smug, just like Mr. Thomas when he gets one up on Basil.
“Is that true Doctor?” asked Zoë.
“Yes, Zoë, it is as Mathew said. The atoms are transformed into different states of energy, mass and light, and perhaps all three at different stages of their electromagnetic decay. Anyway, as you will recall, I came up with the idea that an integral relationship exists between energy, matter, and the universal constant which is the speed of light.”
“We heard it all before, Doctor,” Mathew said with a grin.
“And you forgot to mention time,” teased Zoë. Mathew mumbled something about life, the universe, and flipping everything.
“No I didn’t forget time, Zoë,” said the Doctor smiling. “I just thought I’d demonstrate it to you next time we use the space and time modulator bubble. But in its most basic form, I’ll just say that time is relative to the speed of light. So as you approach the speed of light, time begins to slow down in a direct ratio. And if you go faster than light, then you travel back in time.”
“But I thought that nothing can go faster than light,” said Zoë.
The Doctor grinned. “I can answer that in two ways Zoë. Firstly, light exists as either a wave or as a discrete particle of energy called a photon. And it can be reflected, deflected, refracted, diffracted, and dispersed. It can also be bent by gravity waves, and can disappear without a trace into a black hole. So it can clearly be argued that light does not have a finite speed, it is relative to external influences. And secondly, as I said before, my space and time modulator bubble can travel infinitely faster than light - at the speed of imagination; and even that isn’t a finite speed.”
Where would the world be without you, Doctor?” said Mathew laughing.
“Yes, my boy,” said the Doctor, beaming so broadly that it appeared that the top part of his head would fall off at any moment. “I shudder at that very thought.” Zoë and Mathew laughed at his modesty.
“And now, my little champions, I think we’d better be on our way; the engines are warmed-up and we have a lot of exploring to do today; and I suspect that many mysteries await us when we reach
“Now listen-up you two, this is your Captain speaking,” said the Doctor as he finished testing the controls and checking off the rows of dials and pressure gauges against a checklist that he held before him. “Put on your seatbelts and secure them tightly, please; prepare for an immediate takeoff.” He spoke automatically and without making eye contact with anyone; he was far too preoccupied with the controls.
The Doctor pushed the throttle lever forward and the mighty engines began to roar and thunder as they desperately struggled to rip themselves free of the airship; then the gyroscopes and the dynamos growled into life with such a tremendous din and shuddering that the children feared the airship would be torn to pieces; thankfully they were wrong, and with the Doctor grinning like a boy with a brand new toy they blasted off from the ground and streaked into the sky like a speeding bullet.
“Don’t worry a bit,” said the Doctor laughing, “I’ve still got to fine-tune a few bits and pieces.” Zoë and Mathew looked at each other; they definitely believed him. The leading edge of the airship suddenly erupted into a ball of red flame that swept over them and trailed behind them like a comet’s tail.
“Sorry about that,” said the Doctor reassuringly; he quickly adjusted a number of switches and levers. “We’re not really on fire; it’s only friction with the dense air outside the airship; it’s an atomic fire, you know the air molecules are torn asunder as we rip through the atmosphere, and in the process they release energy in the form of light and heat; metal molecules are also cleaved from the airship in the same manner. But all should be well in a few moments; I forgot to deploy the anti-friction shield, silly me; but no matter.” The Doctor knew what he was doing and the atomic fire went out.
***
The white-capped waves rose and fell at regular intervals beneath the airship as it hurtled untroubled through the sky.
“Isn’t that beautiful,” said Zoë; she pointed at an immense flock of snow-white sea birds as they circled slowly, almost carefree, beneath them, only to disappear moments later as they plunged like darts into the midst of a huge shoal of flashing herring that coiled and roiled beneath the surface like a silver cloud tossed in a deep blue sea.
The Doctor pulled on another lever; he peered up at the flat layer of cloud. “We’ll go above the clouds now,” he said as the leading edge of the airship tilted upwards and, with the engines beginning to strain once more, they slashed through the clouds and entered the darkness beyond the daylight.
“The clouds look like chunky porridge from above,” said Mathew, studying the billowing clouds. “And they’re as flat as a pancake on the bottom.” Zoë giggled at his culinary comparison.
“And heaven is as black as India ink,” she said with a laugh; indeed, the contrast between the lower atmosphere and the star-spangled blackness of space was nothing short of amazing.
The Doctor, beaming with excitement, pushed the yellow lever forward. There was a minor vibration as the huge forward-thrust dynamos picked-up speed; moments later they felt themselves being hurled through space towards the northern horizon like a perfectly-balanced silver arrow.
“Keep a good look out,” said the Doctor, glancing from Zoë to Mathew. “According to my calculations,
“This is very odd!” he said stroking his chin. “The GPS indicates we are travelling due north but the positions of the hour and the minute hand of my watch relative to the position of the sun tells me true north is thirty degrees to our port side.” The Doctor held his watch out for all to see and, sure enough, a line drawn between the hour hand, which was pointing directly at the sun, and the minute hand, put their present position too far to the right.
“We are probably caught in some previously unknown gravitational field anomaly,” said the Doctor seriously; his face was furrowed with worry. “And that is probably why
“So you see, it is just another straightforward expression of nature’s mysterious workings, there you have it in a nutshell. Are there any questions?” Zoë and Mathew appeared to be thoroughly amused. Mathew volunteered a question because the Doctor had fixed his eyes upon him; he raised his arm for some reason.
“Does that anomaly explain what happened to the American Air Force planes that got lost in the Bermuda Triangle?” he asked. “The pilots apparently said that everything, the sea, sky, clouds, and even the position of the sun, looked different. And they were never seen again!”
“I must agree,” said the Doctor thoughtfully. “The similarity between that case and what we see below and around us are striking, even as far as the description of the clouds. And the sky does look different, I must say.” A touch of uneasiness had crept into his voice. The Doctor studied the horizon though his binoculars and rechecked the GPS and sun plot using his wrist watch; the results were the same as before!
“We’ll maintain our GPS bearing for another ten minutes,” he said abruptly. “If we don’t see the island in that time, then we’ll change course to true north. In the meantime, keep a very good look out for this very
Zoë studied the sea to her left, the Doctor to the front of them, and Mathew scrutinized the sea on the right side of the airship; and, eight minutes later, they found what they’d come to find.
“There it is!” Zoë shouted excitedly; she pointed towards a beautiful green silhouette that had just appeared on the horizon.
“It’s on fire!” shouted Mathew as he fixed his binoculars on the mysterious island; a plume of black smoke linked it like a gigantic umbilical cord to the stratosphere, at which point it drifted away towards the west.
“It’s a volcano.” said the Doctor in his usual matter-of-fact, scientific tone; he’d also been watching the island through his binoculars. “And if I’m correct, then what we are witnessing is geologically impossible;
***
But there were eyes watching them as well, big, aqueous eyes.
“What is it?” croaked the old turnip-headed mandrake; he pointed his tendril-like forefinger at the strange silver object hanging majestically in the bright morning sky. His companion followed the direction of his finger and fixed his startled eyes on the strange celestial manifestation. He mumbled something very irreverent under his breath.
It came closer, slowly, and hovered just off shore.
The two mandrakes kept squinting at the object. They could see windows now. And in the windows they could see three people looking down at them.
“Buggered if I know what it is,” replied his companion, and thumped his two-headed mastiff that was in dispute with itself over a large bone.
They continued to watch for a few more minutes and then fled to spread the word: “The Second Coming of God is nigh!” they shouted hysterically as they ran towards the palace.
***
“Sire!” yelled the old turnip-head mandrake breathlessly and collapsed to his knees in front of Mandragora, the Great Mandrake King of all the mandrakes.
The mandrake king looked down at his subject and scowled viciously.
“What is it, old turnip-head?” he growled caustically. “It’d better be good!” He threatened; he’d been in his harem being massaged with oil of fertiliser by a bevy of juicy lady mandrakes. “You there, guard. Assist him to speak!” He darted his large, watery eyes from the prostrate mandrake to the guard and back again. In his annoyed state, the king looked more like a beetroot than a mandrake; this was a source of much gossip and intrigue in the royal household, and among his far-from-loyal subjects, who smirked behind their hand whenever they saw him.
The guard saluted and trundled over to the prostrate mandrake.
“You heard the King,” he bellowed savagely, and gave old turnip-head an eye watering kick where the sun never shines. The King laughed wickedly and licked the spittle from his lips.
“What was it he wanted to say?” He shouted mockingly as the guard withdrew his boot and grinned with satisfaction.
“He said Sire.” Before he hit the floor Sire; Sire is what he said Sire,” said the guard getting into the spirit of the interrogation.
“Sire; Is that all he said?” questioned the King.
“Yes, Sire. Sire is all that he said, Sire.”
“Well get the bugger out of my sight, then!” He shouted angrily; he pulled himself free of the throne with a squelching noise and scuttled back to the harem as fast as he could; he had pressing matters to attend to.
Caterwauling like a really wound-up tomcat the king wrung his hands together with glee as he crossed the threshold into the harem; the young female mandrakes burst into a fit of mad, excited, hysterical giggling as he ran at them swinging his arms about like a windmill.
“Sire!” shouted the inner-guard urgently.
“Shit! Not again!” he yelled angrily turning on the inner-guard. “What is it this time?”
“There’s a silver object in the sky, Sire!” The King groaned and turning his back on his harem padded reluctantly into the open air for a look.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you before!” gasped the old mandrake crossly as the King came into view; he gently massaged the spot where the guard had kicked him.
“If you’d only given me half a chance, I would’ve told you so, so I would have!”
The King ignored him, except for a complimentary kick that caused the old mandrake’s face to turn a bright cherry-red again and his eyes to bulge from their socket.
“God is nigh!” cried another mandrake, throwing up his twisted arms and falling to his knees as a sign of supplication. Other mandrakes either followed his example, just in case he was right, or sniggered openly and ran off to get their guns; the remainder were too young, infirm, or stupid to appreciate what was going on.
“What?” shouted the King, momentarily forgetting his unfinished business in the harem; “God is nigh! Said who?”
All of the King’s subjects and all of the King’s men gazed up at the strange silver object hanging lazily in the bright and sunny morning sky. The king emerged for a look. He cupped his hands to his face and squinted at the strange object, and his jaw flopped onto his chest. God was indeed paying him a visit!
“Sergeant of the Guard!” shouted the king. “Guard of Honour; form a Guard of Honour! God’s coming to see me!” He ran about in circles like a headless pullet searching for its missing head.
The Sergeant of the Guard pelted off as fast as his little legs would carry him.
The King looked up at the object again and gasped as he beheld a large window and saw within it the likeness of God; and God waved at him.
The King scratched his head and his face slumped into a suspicious frown. He called over his adjutant for a look.
“I thought God was a mandrake?” he growled in a measured questioning voice and his eyes narrowed; he smelt a rat but decided to play along with the charade for the time being at least; and just in case there was a typographical error in the mandrake Bible.
“As it happens I thought he was as well!” barked the adjutant. He raised his binoculars and a scowl crept across his face. “They look like those damn Eloi Sire!”
The Doctor looked down and beheld all that was below him and he smiled.
“They’re mandrakes. Come and have a look,” he said excitedly as he opened the escape hatch and leaned out; Zoë and Mathew followed his example and waved at the multitude below them.
“I haven’t seen a mandrake in
“I don’t think they’re ready for us just yet,” said Zoë with a giggle; the scene below was one of complete chaos.
Senior mandrakes from the Ministry of the Interior ran about in circles and waved their arms madly in each and every direction, if only to appear to be busy. Managerial staff immediately organised steering committees and working parties to discover what was going on. And the army, always ready for action at a moments notice, immediately gathered round to draw up battle plans for something they weren’t sure of; at least they appeared to be doing something. But the corporals saved the day, they chivvied reluctant army conscripts into vaguely straight lines and organised the unrolling of the red carpet.
Other mandrakes and vegetable all-sorts gathered on either side of the carpet; and an unruly rabble of bolshies gathered behind them, they shouted an awful lot and made rude gestures at the occupants of the airship and yelled at the top of their lungs: “Down with the bourgeoisie and up with the proletariat!”
“We can land now, I think,” said Zoë; however, there was a hint of reluctance in her voice. “Why are they yelling down with the ruling class and up with the working class for?”
“Pity the prince wasn’t here to answer you, Zoë,” said Mathew with a chuckle in his voice. “He knows everything there is to know about the upper and lower classes; employers and employees; aristocracy and peasants; and the haves and have-nots.”
The Doctor laughed quietly at Mathew’s short answer to this social condition. “Well, yes, Mathew, you’re correct to a point. However, don’t forget that we all come into this world with an inherent ability to improve our lot in life. And there are those who, through dint of family connections and wealth, do far better than those whom society considers to be less privileged. A very clever man once called this state of affairs ‘nature or nurture’; and another philosopher called it ‘fate and the cycles of life’, but I think he may have been a little too abstract for my liking.”
“I’ll take photos for school,” said Zoë, readying her digital camera; she didn’t want to buy into the sociological discord.
“And it’s obvious the limp buggers are very keen to see us!” said Mathew with a smirk, and deftly wedged himself between the laser and the cosmic ray-guns.
The Doctor cast his eyes over the goings-on below them. “I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t land,” he said flicking this and turning that.
“However, Mathew, don’t go too far away from the guns, just in case we should need to defend ourselves.”
Mathew laughed and patted Basil’s revolver; he smiled like a very naughty boy who had something big to hide.
“Alright,” said the Doctor, manipulating the controls. “Over there, that clear spot between that building and the trees should do.” He looked pleased with himself. “It will be nice to meet the mandrakes again,” he said happily. But be on your guard at all times. Mandrakes are known to be the most untrustworthy life form throughout our galaxy.”
Having said that, the Doctor skilfully brought the aircraft down exactly where he wanted to land. However, he didn’t reckon on the old mandrake; he was far too sore and feeble to get out of the way; nobody offered a tendril to help him. One of the bolshies ran over with a bucket and spade to collect the puree of mandrake; his mates rolled about laughing.
The Doctor was the first to exit the airship, followed by Zoë then Mathew. They stood at the bottom of the ladder and waved to the crowd.
A military band suddenly struck up an energetic waltz, and a number of elegantly-dressed officials and military personnel rushed forward to greet them with big toothy grins.
The Doctor’s eyes lit up with a big smile and his eyes twinkled so brightly they sparkled.
Flanked by an entourage of assorted officials and military personnel, the Doctor, Zoë, and Mathew made their way along the red carpet towards an enormous, highly-wrought chair, within which slumped an equally enormous mandrake. He eyed their approach with mistrust; he was, after all, the King of the mandrakes and, as far as he was concerned, every bugger in the galaxy was after his nice, cushy, job.
The Doctor halted before the leader of the mandrakes; Zoë and Mathew crowded next to him. The Doctor was the first to speak.
“I wish you to know that the children and I are very excited and delighted to be here on
With that, the Doctor politely extended his hand of friendship; the King extended his hand in his turn, and they shook hands as a gesture of their mutual respect and alliance.
Although the King greeted the Doctor as he would any high-level dignitary, he refused to fall to his knees and prostrate himself as would have been expected of him in the event that God had seen fit to appear before him; instead, he only managed a hint of a smile, which looked awfully like a growl, and narrowed his eyes. He was very suspicious that the creatures that stood before him were not God or the sons and daughters of God, but were in fact miserable Eloi masquerading as God! And Eloi are a devilishly clever biological life form that eats vegetables!”
“I am Mandragora, King of all the mandrakes!” announced the King very smugly. But instead of getting to his feet to greet God, he preferred to sink deeper into his well-padded chair. He grinned and inflated his chest to twice its normal size; he rapped his fingers rhythmically against the armrest and his eyes studied the Doctor’s face closely, as if through a microscope. An artificial grin flickered across his face and his rubbery lips wobbled.
“Are you God?” He demanded brusquely; he leaned forward in his chair to catch the answer; his subjects, as a body, also leaned forward to hear the answer. If the tall stranger was indeed God, then they would be free from tyranny; however, if he was not, then they could expect nothing more and nothing less than what they’d already experienced for most of their life: pain, suffering, and hardship, and endless toil in order to stuff the King and his army of lay-about minions.
The Doctor shuffled his feet uneasily; he knew that the wrong answer meant more anguish for the mandrake population.
“My name is Doctor George,” he said smiling. “Most people that I know prefer to call me ‘the Doctor.’” He then turned his attention to the children.
“I’d also like to present to you my grandchildren” he said proudly; “this is Zoë, and this is Mathew.” He tapped each on the shoulder in their turn.
The King raised his nose in a self-aggrandizing manner and adjusted his enormous bulk; his chair groaned and creaked alarmingly, and threatened to deposit his royal self onto the common floor at any moment.
Mathew sniggered. The King’s rheumy eyes glared at Mathew then back to the Doctor.
“Are you God?” he yelled; this time his bodyguards crowded round him, muskets at the ready, and aimed at the three aliens.
“Try this for size, you limp beetroot!” snarled Mathew; he pulled the silver revolver from his belt. “Make my day!” He growled like ‘Dirty Harry’ and pointed the heavy barrel directly at the King’s leafy noggin. The King immediately forgot all about his royal good manners, let off a piercing shriek, and fell from his chair with a loud, soggy thump.
“I thought it would take you a little longer than this!” Zoë hissed angrily as the Doctor hurried over to help the King back onto his chair; he appeared to be much shaken and really stirred.
The King jumped from his chair just as it gave way under the stress of having to support his unsupportable weight for far too long, and ran about flapping his arms like a mad-mandrake trying to test the law of gravity by attempting to take to the air like an albatross, but with a lot less success.
Running himself into a state of complete exhaustion the King slumped over and grabbed hold of his knees for support; he gasped for breath until he felt he could resume a vertical position once more.
Zoë felt a chill flutter down her spine; the Doctor looked on apprehensively, unsure of what he should do next. Mathew pulled the hammer back on his gun just in case he needed to use it urgently.
The King slowly raised his bulk and rounded on Mathew; his lips rippled with anger and wind. But Mathew spoke first.
“Sorry, Mandragora,” he said as though he really meant it. But his disrespectful familiarity with the King and his sneer let him down somewhat.
“Mathew!” snapped the Doctor reproachfully, and smiled sheepishly at the King; Zoë also smiled. But the King was having none of it; he snarled like a wolf and prepared to do something very stupid, especially given that Mathew was armed and extremely dangerous. But Mathew spoke first again.
“Sorry, King; no bad feelings, I hope?”
The King scratched his head as he mulled over what Mathew had just said and done and, convinced that Mathew was madder than he was, called for another chair and resumed his regal position. He returned his attention the Doctor.
“Are you God?” he demanded again, and again he leaned forward in order to catch the reply; he rallied his bodyguards to protect him from God’s little helper.
“Would you please allow me a moment to speak with Mathew, your Majesty?” said the Doctor respectfully, and bobbed his head like a supplicant would.
The King nodded graciously, and a hint of a grin appeared between the folds on his face; God would never have asked for his permission!
“Thank you, Mathew.” said the Doctor sharply. “If you have no respect for yourself, then please give us some courtesy by showing us some respect; and also to our host the King of the mandrakes; he’s no fool, I’ll have you know. And he has our lives in his hands; remember that the next time you think of doing something really stupid; think of other people before yourself for a change.”
“And thanks to you, Mathew, the King’s on the verge of declaring war on us, and we’ve only just met,” hissed Zoë.
“I was only trying to be friendly,” Mathew said in a huff. “And I’ve seen better-looking mandrakes on Basil’s allotment, and that’s saying something.” He laughed.
“Are you God?” insisted the King yet again; this time his voice was very high-pitched and demanding.
The Doctor nodded, smiled, and adjusted his waistcoat; he cleared his throat noisily and began his oration.
“Your Majesty, I’d like you to know that you see standing before you the sons and daughter of God; we are the descendants of almighty God and we are made in the image of God; we are God’s children and almighty God is our Father in Heaven!”
“That should confuse the bugger to no end!” Mathew said with a quiet laugh. Zoë preferred to ignore him.
“Yes, your Royal Highness,” said Zoë; “God visits us every Sunday in church, whenever we receive the Holy Sacrament. We’re God’s children, and God watches over us.”
“And better than that,” Mathew sang as he sidled to the fore, “we belong to the Church of England; and all members of the Church of England are God’s representatives on Earth!”
Zoë gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs with her elbow; he squealed defensively and rubbed his sore ribs. “And I hope you can get us out of this mess,” she growled from the corner of her mouth.
“So you’re related to God, are you?” said the King, none-the-wiser as to their sacred status, except perhaps that they were related to God, and on speaking term with God, and that he visits them once a week for a chin-wag. The King sat bolt upright in his chair and looked upon each of God’s children in turn; he was still not satisfied with what he saw; his lips moved.
“What is it you want?” he said in a measured, suspicious voice. And why don’t you look like a mandrake?”
The Doctor thought for a moment before replying. “All that I can say in order to answer your question, Your Majesty, is that our father in heaven works in very mysterious ways. And if He was to visit you in person, he’d probably appear before you as a splendid mandrake with purple and white flowers in his hair!” The Doctor smiled at his own brilliance.
“Sounds like a bleeding hippy,” Mathew mumbled under his breath.
“And we have come, as God’s representatives, to your wonderful country on a mission of peace and friendship,” said the Doctor.
“But the priests tell us that God is a mandrake!”
“And indeed he is Your Majesty,” said the Doctor. “As I said before, God moves in mysterious ways; and in the event that He should visit you then you would see him as a magnificent mandrake. Another way of looking at it, Your Majesty, is that heaven is filled with many images of God, one for each religion; there is one image of God specific to the centaurs; and another image of God for the Wartlock; and of course there is the one true God that we worship and obey because he is our Father in Heaven.”
The King sat quietly for a few minutes stroking his chin; he was deep in thought; returning to his senses he leaned towards the Doctor and said: “What do you know about the Wartlock?”
The Doctor was knocked for six by the King’s question; it was obvious that he knew an awful lot about those dreadful creatures.
The Doctor cleared his throat noisily and cast a disapproving look at Mathew before giving his answer; he wasn’t taking any more chances with Mathew’s unique sense of humour. He took a step closer to the King who looked distinctly pale.
“Are the Wartlock causing you grief, Your Highness?
“Yes!” The King replied in a deflated tone and followed it up with a whistling sigh.
“I’ve got problems not only with the mangy Wartlock these days but also with the centaurs, cave men, and those damn toe-biting sabre-tooth moles. But the Wartlock are the pick of the nasty bunch; and they are a threat to the very existence of the Mandrake nation and to me personally!” He looked around for signs of possible danger. “And if we don’t do something soon to stop them, I’m done for!”
The King followed his claim by jumping to his feet belligerently; he raised his arms high above his head to show he demanded total silence and shouted at the top of his lungs:
“My fellow mandrakes, necessity has thrust upon your shoulders the onerous duty to gather all your weapons and prepare to do battle with the enemies of the mandrakes - especially those scabby Wartlocks!” He stopped for a moment to gauge the reaction of his audience; they appeared to be stunned.
“I know that many of you will most likely die in the ensuing Mother of all Battles, but I’m sure that your spirit will be lifted no end in the knowledge that you will be fighting and dying so that others may live and have a thoroughly good time at your expense; and your family and friends and I will be ever so grateful!” He craned his neck towards the Doctor. “Well, what did you think of the speech?”
“Well, I’m not missing the football world cup for anybody!” growled a young mandrake and adjusted his
The Doctor nodded and smiled politely. “I’ll do everything within my power to help you and your people, Your Majesty,” he said sincerely. “Did your Highness have something in mind?”
A grin appeared on the King’s podgy face; he certainly did have something in mind! His lips parted to let out a cackle and he wrung his hands with joy; he just couldn’t believe his luck - before him stood the solution to his problem and he, with the Doctor’s help, would be known far and wide as the saviour of the mandrakes; and if he played his card right he’d also get the credit too!
“The Wartlock, cave men, and centaurs eat many of my subjects each day,” he said bitterly. “And, as if to heap insult onto tragedy, they shit on us as well!”
Mathew looked confused and he half raised his arm for attention. “But I thought you vegetable-types need a little shit dumped on you every now and then?”
Zoë clamped her hands to her face to hide her embarrassment. The Doctor’s lips moved but no sound came out; he looked distinctly pale.
The King glowered at Mathew and he leaned forward till they nearly touched nose-to-nose.
“Just try it mate!” He barked savagely, “and then I’ll personally show you what we do with little shits like you!” Mathew was definitely a pain in the King’s big bum.
It was obvious to the Doctor that the King was far more interested in his own well being than that of his subjects. The Doctor also knew that if he helped the mandrakes he would also be helping the very unpopular King to secure his position and that, in its turn, meant more suffering for his unfortunate subjects. What was he to do? And furthermore, he was well aware that any interference from him could change the political and social history of the mandrakes.
“I’ll have to go away and think about your problem Your Highness,” said the Doctor with a worried look.
“There must be an answer that will suit everybody’s needs,” he said solemnly. “But there’s definitely no place for war in the equation. Under no circumstances is there to be war!” He said most earnestly. “Negotiation is the only way forward no matter how long it takes! I will not allow blood to be shed in the land of the mandrakes if I can help it.” The Doctor’s voice was so passionate and authoritarian that the King was forced to sit up straight and listen to everything he was saying. And the Doctor was beginning to sound as though he should be King. The King’s eyes narrowed poisonously. The Doctor continued:
“And the Wartlock, the cave men and the centaurs have their own part to play in the game of life!”
The King was too silent for the Doctor’s liking and his facial expression looked very dangerous indeed; it was time to leave the mandrakes and as quickly as possible.
“I’ll just have to slip back to my airship for a while and ponder the question; but you can rest assured that I shall return with an answer in the fullness of time Your Highness!” With that the Doctor rose to his feet and strode towards the airship followed closely by Zoë and Mathew.
The King followed their departure with venomous eyes. He’d already added the Doctor and his little helper to his list of enemies destined for special attention; a half grin-smile flicked across his face and he wrung his leathery hands together with conviction in the knowledge that his reign would prevail.
“I shall return!” Mathew shouted at the dwindling crowd of mandrakes; they waved back none-too-enthusiastically. “I think that we’re more popular than the King?” he said. The Doctor nodded; he knew that Mathew was right, and that the salvation of the mandrakes rested in their hands. What a dilemma.
The mandrakes, however, had seen it all before: bleeding lying politicians feeding them all the manure they had at their disposal and then pissing off when they got what they wanted; so why should these visitors, even if they were related to God, be any different?
The King stood in the doorway glaring darkly after his departing visitors. He wasn’t at all happy. And contrary to what the Doctor had said, he needed war at all costs; and he didn’t care how much blood was spilt or how many lives were lost, he needed the people to suffer so that he could get them to rally around the one true King of the mandrakes, himself.
The airship rose swiftly into the clear blue sky and moments later vanished in the direction of the ancient volcano. They left behind them a throng of disillusioned mandrakes staring up at the empty sky and wondering what the Second Coming of God was all about.
***
In the sparsely-vegetated region between the jungle and the barren part of the volcano stood a group of centaurs; they shaded their eyes against the glare of the sun and squinted at a strange silver object that had just appeared in the morning sky. It came closer and hovered low, not too far from where they stood.
But the centaur’s interest was not so much with who or what it was inside the weird and wonderful craft but more about what they, the mighty centaurs, could do with it as a weapon of war in their feud with the mandrakes, the cave men, the Eloi, and the mongrel Wartlock.
“Imagine what we could do with a flying machine like that!” said the Black Stallion to his equally belligerent companion, a piebald mare. Other assorted centaurs neighed loudly, nodded enthusiastically, and pranced on the spot with excitement. The centaur quest for world domination was beginning to look a little rosier. They grinned darkly as they galloped back to their lair.
“My leader!” shouted the Black Stallion from the periphery of the Male Exclusion Zone.
The leader of the centaurs, a huge though aging chestnut, trotted over to see what he wanted; he’d been very busy keeping his harem of pretty young fillies and mares out of the reach of the lusty teenage stallions and others that milled about in small groups on the outer edge of the zone. They spent most of their time yelling ribald suggestions and invitations to the females and telling each other what they’d like to do given half the chance; their mates would roar with laughter and make mad dashes towards the closest filly knowing full well that Alpha would be over in a flash to chase them off.
But there was method in their madness. The more incursions they launched into the exclusion zone the more tired Alpha would become; and the more tired he was the better was their chance of racing in and shagging a filly or two. They bucked and leapt high into the air with youthful high spirits and the temptation of coming to grips with some forbidden ‘ripe fruit’!
“Damn oversexed boys, should be neutered at birth!” grumbled the old chestnut with a lot of heartfelt emotion. “You should be in school, you good-for-nothing loafers!” he bellowed.
He knew that he was getting old and that his time as alpha male was fast coming to an end. He continued to pace the perimeter of the exclusion zone, but more slowly with advancing time; he ignored the catcalls and very lewd commentary from the young males.
“My leader!” said the Black Stallion again; he reared up on his hind legs and pummelled the air with his front legs. This time Alpha stopped in mid-trot and studied the assembly of young centaurs; he knew it was only a matter of time before one of them would usurp his position. He studied the faces of the grinning young males that would one day engage him in mortal combat, a battle from which only one of them would return to carry on the task of guarding the harem.
He cast his eyes over the faces glaring back at him and his heart sank; he recognised some of their faces among his foals. His head drooped sadly.
“Shadows and dust!” he moaned with resignation and acceptance of his ultimate fate. So, some of the buggers had got past his guard. But he was still Alpha male and would remain so until someone took that right away from him!
“Don’t come any closer!” he yelled and reared up on his hind legs. Making his point he strutted stiff-legged and tail held high towards the smirking young males; they maintained their grin; they could see he was fast approaching his use-by date. But the time was not yet right to challenge him for the position of Alpha male, not just yet! They first needed to capture that flying machine if they were going to be victorious in their war against the rest of the world. But what if they weren’t successful in capturing the aircraft?
The young centaurs gathered around to discuss their options. After some ten minutes of basically laughing a lot, they broke up into their small groups once more. They were in a win-win situation.
In the event that their attempt to capture the airship failed, Alpha would get the blame; however, should their attempt be successful he’d be condemned by the population because it was they, the young stallions, that won the day - Alpha was far too busy guarding his harem and shagging himself silly than fighting for the future of the Centaur nation. Alpha’s days were indeed numbered!
Alpha listened intently to Black Stallion’s account of the strange airship they’d witnessed in the sky and his proposal they try to capture it. He didn’t reply immediately but continued to stare unblinking at the Black Stallion; perhaps he was right. If they did capture the airship the Centaur nation would fulfil its destiny of becoming the masters of the world! And in that event his position as Alpha would be consolidated forever. But if the attempt failed, he’d simply say he knew nothing about it and the perpetrators would be executed immediately. “Dead centaurs tell no tales!” Alpha chuckled; he’d have to ensure he didn’t sign anything incriminating.
“Where did it come from?” he asked. “Could it be a Wartlock or Eloi secret weapon?”
Alpha knew the cavemen were far too primitive, and the mandrakes were too preoccupied with politics and their King with his harem to have created such a fantastic weapon; but he wasn’t so sure about the Eloi and the Wartlock. And did the wizards have anything to do with it?
“It is my considered opinion,” said the Black Stallion, “the aircraft trespassing centaur sky was built by the Eloi; they are very clever and a technologically advanced race of people. The Wartlock, on the other hand, spend most of their time below ground like mushrooms, and they prefer to stay out of the sunlight.” Black Stallion went silent; he was clearly holding something back.
“Come on you old nag spit it out, I command you to on pain of death!” shouted the leader of the centaurs. The Black Stallion shuffled his hooves in the sand before answering in a broken, uneasy voice.
“My leader,” he said in a subdued voice. “My mandrake spies tell me the strange silver airship belongs to God, and that God probably comes from the red star that we see moving through the sky at night.” Alpha was staggered by the news. What did God’s presence mean for the centaurs; and more importantly what did it mean for his future as the leader of the centaurs, and as the Alpha male?
“Surely you don’t believe that garbage, do you, Black Stallion? After all, it could just as well be some new type of wizard transportation ship or something; wizards are also very clever and technologically advanced you know.”
Black Stallion laughed with gusto. “Beg your pardon leader,” he said, his voice crackling with hilarity. “From what I’ve heard the wizards are far too busy playing with their clappers; they just wouldn’t have enough energy let alone the time to design and build an airship!” He was met with roars of laughter; the leader joined-in the general amusement.
“Alright Black Stallion, you have my permission to prepare a plan to capture the airship. Bring it to me as soon as possible!”
***
But the mandrakes and centaurs weren’t the only ones to have observed the passage of the airship.
Cavemen pointed at the sky and whispered among themselves nervously. They’d never seen anything like the airship before.
They were familiar with the stars, the sun and the moon and held them in awe as they made their way stolidly across the heavens. They were also familiar with falling stars and comets and regarded them with reverence and fear. But what they saw that day terrified them. And in the flickering light of a warm fire they painted what they'd witnessed on the walls of their cave.
“Will it hurt me?” asked the little girl with long straw-coloured hair and questioning blue eyes. She gazed up at her parents and darted nervous glances at the airship as is sailed slowly across the sky. The parents looked at one another not knowing how to answer the child; she was the only survivor of their three children.
The little girl was born into a violent world. She trembled; although only seven years old she’d already seen death, her baby brother at birth and twice that day. One of the dead was her five-year-old brother. She fixed her eyes on her brother’s body; he was so cold and pale; he lay on his side in a shallow grave that her parents had scraped in the floor of the cave; he lay there, so still, as if he was asleep; she leaned over the grave and adjusted the position of the flowers that she’d placed in his cold hands and tears trickled down her cheeks and fell onto his lifeless body.
“Please don’t leave me,” she cried pitifully.
Her mother wrapped an animal skin around her shoulders and her father did the same upon the dead body of her brother. They covered his body with the dry earth that she already knew would one day consume them all. She wiped away the tears of grief and sadness and helped fill the grave.
She would no longer see the gaping wound in his skull. The medicine man had tried in vain to release the ‘evil’ from her brother’s head, but his poor frail body was just too weak to survive the treatment.
Her mother told her that her brother was now the brightest star in heaven, twinkling next to her baby sister. And one day they would all be together again.
The little girl cried with such passion that she feared her heart would break. These people were humans, with human emotions, ambitions, and frailties; and a brief season of life.
The Doctor felt his heart skip-a-beat as the airship sailed over the
Although nobody in England knew it at the time, a war between two of the greatest superpowers since the dawn of history had come to a cataclysmic end on a distant planet called Eden, in a spiral galaxy far, far away on the distant edge of the known universe; there were no victory marches or celebrations to mark the end of the war - there was no-one left on Eden to celebrate! One hundred billion men, women, and children vaporised in the blink of an eye, oblivion!
The only people left alive were a small defence force marooned on a hot, desolate, Garrison Moon. Their only hope of salvation was to find a new habitable planet and fast! The alternative was death: intense radiation from the echo of the nuclear explosions and starvation. And a black hole was forming in the void created by the massive nuclear detonations! Soon the remains of the once mighty galaxy would be swallowed-up and reduced to energy and void. The survivor’s from Garrison Moon are on their way; they are approaching Titan, the inhabited moon of Saturn; but in the distance they can see their destination: the marbled, blue-green planet we call Earth.
***
The airship floated as a feather on the breeze beyond the
“You don’t suppose that’s the Second Coming of the Simian God, do you?” said a silver-haired wartlock woman; she screwed her prune-like face as she squinted at the silver object in the bright blue sky.
“Fat lot of good he did us first time round if it is!” barked her companion; he sneered contemptuously and, hawking noisily to clear his throat, spat a horrible mass of phlegm at an unfortunate cockroach that was legging-it for the safety of a nearby rock.
“And, by golly, he’d have a lot of cheek to visit us now, especially after letting those Eloi buggers do us over like that!” He shook his bony fist towards the airship.
“But if it isn’t the Simian God,” she said nervously, “then we could be facing an even greater danger than the Eloi!”
They mumbled, grumbled, and cursed for a few more minutes before deciding it would be a good idea to inform someone in authority about what they’d just witnessed; they padded-off towards the wartlock castle as fast as their bandy legs would allow.
The Wartlock King sat resplendent in his military uniform; it was festooned with medals and ribbons for services he’d never heard of, let alone earned. But he was Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Prime Minister answerable only to the King, himself. So he could give himself any award that he desired, and he had every one.
He sat back self-righteously and smiled; he’d given the recently-departed King a state funeral that befitted a King. He laughed quietly to himself; and as chief law officer he could name at least one hundred people who’d swear on a stack of holy Wartlock bibles that it wasn’t him who used that knife to pin the protest note to the King’s back. He smiled at his own brilliance and good fortune.
“Your Majesty!” cried his aide-de-camp bursting into the Throne Room. “Your Majesty!” he repeated himself, overcome with the enormity of the moment.
“The Simian God; the Second Coming of God is upon us!” he cried, and fell to his knees under the combined weight of exhaustion, anxiety, and a bagful of really bad mortal sins that he’d collected over the years.
The King observed his fallen servant in silence; he was uncertain of the meaning of what he’d just said, but the look of fear on his twisted face troubled him greatly. He rose slowly from his throne and, accompanied by a dozen of his most trusted crones, waddled out into the bright sunshine where a multitude of his subjects had already assembled, gaping skyward.
“What is it, peasants?” he demanded, and scanned the sky. The sun’s glare was very bright, but what he saw was enough to send a chill down his hairy spine. He mumbled darkly and beckoned for his priest; he pelted over and cowered before the King.
“What is it?” growled the King with a mixture of threat and anxiety in his voice.
“It’s the Second Coming of God! Your Majesty.” cried the priest. “Just like the Holy Scripture had said he would!” Having delivered the momentous message the priest jumped to his feet and pelted towards the cathedral to say his prayers and offload as many sins as possible in the available time; he prayed the queue wasn’t too long.
“Assemble the guard, mobilise the army, load all weapons!” roared the King. “I wouldn’t put anything past those Eloi buggers.” But in his heart of hearts he knew that what he was witnessing was far beyond Eloi technology. So what was it?
“General Patton,” he thundered and beckoned for him to approach.
“Yes, my leader, your wish is my command; what is it?” He flung a stiff-arm salute at the King. He wanted a few more medals to add to his collection and he had some room left on his jacket.
The King studied him for a moment; the general’s eagerness to appease him worried him; perhaps he was also after his nice cushy job. He’d have to watch Patton closely.
“Tell me, General Patton,” he said looking him straight in the eyes. “How would you classify that object - is it a friend or foe?”
Patton fixed his eyes on the silver airship hovering above them; he wasn’t sure what answer the King wanted to hear, but he knew that any future promotion depended on his reply or on the King’s death. He hoped it would be the latter.
“The priests have been prophesying the Second Coming of God for a very long time,” said Patton with a quiet chuckle. “So it’s got to happen sooner or later, I suppose!” He grinned, mockingly. The truth is that Patton despised the priestly class because they relied too much on faith, hope, and charity, and all of that turn-the-other-cheek rubbish; and if he didn’t watch himself, they’d put him out of a jammy job.
“And those damn priests have conditioned the masses to expect God at any moment. They want to see God!” He growled so vehemently that spittle sprayed onto his tunic and collected at the corners of his mouth.
“I’ll show them God!” said the King. “If only they had but one throat to cut!” The priests were howling for forgiveness and repenting at the top of their voice in the cathedral.
Patton’s jaw fell open onto his chest; he was stunned by what the King had just said and, given that he was supposed to be ‘of the people, for the people, and by the people,’ how could he possibly contemplate the killing of all of his people, unless he was insane? Patton’s eyes narrowed and he stroked his broad, hairy chin; he bobbed his head; his decision had been made; the mad usurper King must die! He cast his envious eyes over the throne and smiled, it would soon be his. He chuckled quietly.
The Wartlock needed a strong military leader, Patton reasoned, one who’d put the interests of the people before his own. And only a military government, a benevolent dictatorship, could fulfil the demands of the Wartlock nation. Patton grinned as he cast a sideway glance at the King sitting comfortably on his well-padded throne. Next to the King, he, Patton, was the most powerful wartlock on earth!
Patton chuckled inwardly; he had to arrange for an unfortunate accident to befall the King as soon as possible. He sneakily withdrew his general’s stiletto and ran his podgy finger along the razor-sharp tapered blade; it left a trickle of blood; he grinned and replaced the stiletto as sneakily as he’d withdrawn it and beamed like a teenager in love for the first time; he turned his attention to his commander-in-chief.
“Your Majesty.” he sang and sidled closer to the King. “That object may also be an Eloi secret weapon. And if it is,” he added with a wide toothy grin, “then we must do everything militarily possible to capture it. Then we can take over the world!”
“We can’t do that!” said the King in a reprimanding voice. “It just might belong to God; then what? No, I can’t possibly take that risk!”
“If it’s not God, or an Eloi secret weapon,” said Patton cranking his head like a rooster on a promise, “then it can only be one thing Your Majesty.”
“Oh yes, and who or what would that be then?”
“They must be people from across the great water!” he sang like an opera singer with an empty scrotum. “There have been many accounts in recent years from fishermen of the existence of a great land mass far, far away,” he said and flapped his arms like a rooster about to physically assault a hen.
The King studied Patton long and hard before answering. “So what is it you had in mind, General? Neighbours from across the sea, eh?” He sniggered incredulously; he was beginning to dislike Patton.
“If your lordship pleases,” said Patton grinning like a daisy on a bright spring morning. “But whatever the correct answer is, I think it wise that you allow me to mobilise the army for your own protection, Your Majesty.”
The King wasn’t too sure what to do; he didn’t trust Patton; he was under no illusion the army would follow Patton if it came to a choice between himself and Patton.
But the crisis was over just as fast as it had begun.
“It’s gone!” the King shouted wide-eyed with foreboding; he hurled himself from his chair and scanned the sky in all directions. “Where did it get to?” he bellowed.
“Perhaps it’s landed?” said Patton. “I repeat Your Majesty; you must give the order to mobilise the army straight away; otherwise we may never capture the airship!” He had to press home the point.
“I’ve heard rumours there’s a plot against your life!” That was sure to get the King moving in more ways than one.
“What?” shrieked the King jumping to his feet with such vigour he departed the Throne. “Who told you that?”
“It was a Secret Police informant, Your Majesty,” Patton said smartly. The truth is that he’d just made up the story on the spur of the moment; he grinned darkly as the King pelted around the throne in a panic.
“There have always been rumours against your life, Your Majesty,” Patton lied. “And there always will be unless you declare martial law and allow me to find and execute the ring-leaders!” Patton smirked; he’d just skilfully arranged for the removal of all his enemies, it was a masterstroke of cunning and sheer bastardry. He laughed silently. “King Patton!” It sounded just right. Ho hum, he sighed wistfully.
Exhausted, the King flung himself back onto his chair and sat back puffing; he stroked his ample jaw and his eyebrows knitted above the bridge of his nose; he was deeply worried.
“Thank you, General Patton. It’s good to have someone I can trust at my side.” He lied through his teeth.
Patton grinned with mocking eyes; he’d skilfully deceived the King, but Patton was dead wrong!
“You’re too kind Your Majesty.” He performed a delicate, curtsey manoeuvre like an eighteenth-century French dandy. “May I take leave to mobilise the army, Your Majesty? I’d also like you to inspect the army, and possibly press some flesh. It would be good for army morale.”
The King thought for a moment. Much had happened in the last hour, a possible visit from God; an enemy secret weapon; an invasion by unknown people from across the sea; and an attempt on his life. He let out a long, whistling sigh and shook his head with disbelief.
“Alright, General Patton; you have my permission to do as you ask!”
Patton grinned so broadly the corners of his lips touched his ear lobes, and exposed his huge, molar-like teeth.
“Thank you, God!” Patton sang as he waddled out of earshot of the King and rushed headlong towards the subterranean city to get the ball rolling.
Patton couldn’t stop grinning; he threw a flood of kisses towards heaven as he ran. This was going to be much easier than he’d thought possible.
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