A/N: I don't own The Doctor or any of his stuff, nor do I own Jules Verne or any of his stuff, and I certainly don't get paid for doing this. There will definitely be more, and I promise it will be confusing as all hell on a stick. I just have no idea WHEN that will occur. :D
I could not have been older than seven or eight, in those days. The journal is difficult to translate, in part for such terrible handwriting, and in part because at that age, I did not properly articulate the sights and emotions I remember. However, I must properly rewrite the whole of this journal, for my records if for nothing else. After all, one must pay proper homage to the seed they blossomed from. I touch the aged paper reverently, smile, and turn to the sheaf of parchment dedicated to my task. This translation will be in English, and will be kept where none on Earth may find it. This is not an account meant for Earth, anyway; the charade may rest.
~
Today is a magical day! Even seeing the dawn with Paul on the boat was not as magnificently exciting. I went to the market with Mother and Father, hoping to ask them to buy a cake for Paul and I to share. While they spoke with the butcher, I went out to the street to watch the clouds move. I heard the rise and fall of a great wind, though it was rhythmic, and I did not feel the air move about me. I had to find the source of this sound, as boys must always explore. It came from the alley a bit further down the street and across the way, and when I stepped in to look, I found a great vessel at the end. It was a large blue box, with celestial script toward the top, and it flickered in and out of existence before my eyes. When I reached out to touch it, it felt like metal and wood, and remained solid and warm. It had to be alive. I could so easily imagine it leaning to my hand, as a cat would, and I could even feel the metal heave toward me. Of course, I felt triumph! I had tamed a vessel from another plane of being!
And then, as if to prove me wrong, a door opened in the vessel, and I was forced to jump back before I was struck. A man stepped out- well, it looked like a man. I knew it was an angel, and this was a vessel from Heaven. It looked like any other man, but stepping from a box that had coalesced from nothing at all! He wore no hat despite the unforgiving sun, and his suit, while a handsome velvet that captured the colors around him, was rumpled and mildly ill-fitting. His hair was wild, also caught the colors around him to show in brilliant reflections of auburn and chestnut and flax, and also looked rumpled and ill-fitting, although he did not seem as if his head would look proper any other way. He looked worried, and nearly stumbled upon finding me in his path. And then- and then! He smiled upon me, and I felt truly blessed. The worry washed away from his face, and I found myself relieved to notice this. He knelt before me and took my shoulders, speaking to me in a beautiful and awkward tongue I could not understand. Is this the tongue of angels?
I pause in my writing, regarding the stains of ink on my fingers borne of excitable trips over pips in the paper. I know now what he had said to me that day. I could write it here, for posterity of events... or I could omit it, for the sake of preserving the memories of an impressionable child such as myself. Several minutes of pondering and a cup of tea gradually find me deciding to leave it in the recesses of my memory. Should I lose that, and find this, I want to feel exactly as I felt, with all the wonder and confusion bestowed upon me in the proper moments. Settling back into my seat, taking a sip of my tea to warm and inspire me, I resume.
~
A trace of recognition came to his face. He looked positively horrified for a small fragment of a second, before he seemed to realize that I could not understand. He then held up a finger the way adults do when asking one to wait a moment, and he walked past me to the street. I turned to watch him walk, and his gait was slightly uneven but cautious, as if he'd been struck about the head recently and become disoriented. He lifted his face, and I firmly believed he was speaking with God to determine how he should speak to me. When he turned again, that smile remained, and he was wholly serene. He spoke once more, and his words halted, as if he were learning how to talk.
"Good afternoon, boy! Would you kindly tell me where and when I am?"
What a preposterous question, I thought at first, but perhaps in Heaven, there was no such thing as time, and of course angels had far more important things to do than learn geography. I was wise to humor him. "You stand in Nantes, Sir Angel," I replied dutifully, and I thought respectfully! "It is June 5th of 1836 and you're in Nantes. My name is Jules, Sir, and pleased to meet you," I added hastily, with a clumsy bow. It is difficult to remember one's manners when confronted with celestial beings!
His laugh was as beautiful as everything else about him. "A fine name, Jules, but I am no angel." He bowed and knelt again, regarding me solemnly. "I am called the Doctor. I travel in the sky, and in... well, in time, but I seem to have become lost. Will you tell me how to get to Paris from here?"
"It is impossible for doctors to travel in time, or there would be no sickness," I informed him, confident in my facts- and my imagination. Often I have dreamed of traveling to unreachable places, even of inventing a sort of winding machine that could turn time forward and back at my whim (saving myself many a beating), but I knew nothing of the sort could possibly exist. "And Paris is very, very far away from here." I pointed toward the horizon where the sun rises in the mornings, knowing Paris was somewhere in that direction.
"Never, never say that word, Jules," he scolded me. I think he scolded me, but his face became so very sad that I didn't know if he was scolding or begging. He must have seen my confusion. "Impossible!" he whispered, holding up a finger to my face. "Impossible is the poison that lays the greatest of men on the deathbeds of their dreams. Jules, you must never let yourself be poisoned. Nothing is impossible!" He took my shoulders again, and while a small part of me was frightened, I could feel such a heady potion coming from his words.
I heard the bell above the butcher shop door chime across the street, and my mother's voice seeking me out. I took one step- oh, I wish I hadn't taken even that, though I suffer no regrets for it- and then I saw his face change once more, as if he knew any more steps than that would prevent the birth of a grand adventure. "Come... let me show you, Jules. I can show you the impossible and bring you right back here and now, and I can find Paris later."
Maybe he was not an angel, but he is certainly a gift from God. When I pray with Mother tomorrow, I will be praying for him, because I know now that if he isn't an angel, he must at least be God's favorite.
I prop my quill, and I find it difficult to see clearly. I didn't write everything that happened to me that day, because I knew it would never fade from me. When he returned me to that alley and I ran to my mother's call, I knew I would live to tell many magnificent stories, and so I have. And so I will. I've cheated, but I know what will come to pass, and I regret none of what I have seen. This journal, this translation and upkeep, is the willpower of the wondering, wandering little boy alive within me. I am alive. I close my eyes and lean over my writing, inhaling deeply, spreading my hands over the words to immerse my senses in the scent and sensation of drying ink. I can imagine him sitting with me now, recounting our journeys as if we had merely taken a carriage across the river to meet family for supper. I can imagine that great sound, the rise and fall of a phantom wind, the exclamations of the ignorant folk around the Vessel when it appears amongst them.
But when I open my eyes, the sound escapes my imagination and lives, even just outside my window. I hear the excited and confused murmurs of people taking their evening walks and being interrupted by the impossible. My heart becomes a tumult, of course, and almost sick with anticipation, I rush to the window to see what is happening.
The angel has returned!