*Inspired heavily by the work of Walter de la Mare, and anything of that you recognise is obviously not mine. My only instruction: imagine any Doctor you choose.
The Traveller
'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
He thought he might be dreaming.
He didn't know where he was and he couldn't remember how he got there, but he did feel that there was a strange sense of purpose to his every action from that point on. It wasn't a kidnapping, and it wasn't an alternate reality, it wasn't some great logical mystery that needed to be attended to and solved – he was just – there. For a reason.
He couldn't quite grasp that reason, it was like trying to hold onto smoke with your fingertips, but he almost didn't mind. It was interesting to feel the weight of a thousand troubles and a hundred more struggles float away from his shoulders, bringing release in a peace he hadn't felt for hundreds of years.
The Traveller was simply Being.
Not Doing, not Changing, nor Saving. Just Being.
Alone, in the middle of a forest.
Behind him was a dense thicket of birch and aspen, their pale trunks glowing eerily white and luminous in the growing dark, peering out at him expectantly as if waiting for him to make a move. They stood as far back as he could see and surrounded him in every direction, standing closer together the further out he tried to stare. They towered overhead so all he could see was the moonlight filtering in through the top in shallow beams, illuminating the clearing he was standing in – besides that, they closed in on him every which way he turned. They were keeping him from seeing something, or forbidding him from seeing anything except that which was in front of him.
Almost like a prison, but the Traveller wasn't worried. There weren't any worries here; only Existence.
And suddenly he noticed a door in front of him, as if it had just materialized there or someone had simply removed a veil that had been covering it prior to that moment. He began to examine it. It was a simple door, light wood and weathered with age, brittle in places and rotting in the corners, but it stood tall and firm and as solid as the trees behind him. It felt familiar, affectionate; welcoming. Something old, but something that felt so very new. And it was the bluest blue he'd ever thought to see.
Attached to the door was a house, likewise simply expanding out from the door as if it had been there all along, but the Traveller simply hadn't noticed it. It couldn't be more than two stories if the windows were any indication, and he estimated he could probably walk around the entire structure in under a minute – still, it felt bigger than that. Perhaps the outer crumbling walls didn't quite represent the volume inside.
The Traveller looked around at the trees, and then turned back to the door with the house. It was strange but he felt as if he may have been there before, experienced that very moment in a striking bout of déjà vu. He didn't question it, because there were no questions here, but his purpose felt poignant and sure in his mind.
He knocked on the door, the surface of the wood shining in the effulgence of the moonlight.
"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller.
The silence was all-encompassing and terribly, terribly lonely. Not an animal or any otherworldly creature gave a response, the forest still and strange as not even the wind breathed a sigh through the trees – not even a whisper. But suddenly a bird sprung from the turret of the house, bursting and gasping with life and the Traveller smiled as it glided over the treetops and flung itself into oblivion. Such fantastic, brilliant life, although very soon it was gone. So fleeting and bittersweet, and the Traveller felt alone once more.
He knocked on the door again a second time. "Is there anybody there?" he said.
Though he stood and waited, not sure what he was expecting but knowing there had to be something, he was greeted only with silence. It became clear that the house was empty – long since deserted, with no one behind that door of the bluest blue to greet him. He was by himself in the clearing with the house, not a soul awake to breathe a whisper into his ear.
Though even as the Traveller started to feel yearning and longing surge inside him for the company he craved, he realised something had stirred within the stillness of the house. Behind the darkened frames of the windows lit only by the light of the moon, phantom Listeners watched him with solemn eyes and haunted faces, all familiar and not and trapped on the inside of the walls to listen to his voice humming along the wind. Sometimes he thought he could make out features – blonde hair, dark skin, red hair, male and female alike, old and young in varying nature but they moved so quickly they were simply blurs of shadowed colour he couldn't quite make out.
All he knew was that he ached for them. He wanted to be near them and he placed a hand on the flat surface of the door as if he might be able to feel them, and attuned his senses to their movement. That was when he realised their strangeness – they were there, he could see them, but they weren't really There. Just echoes that could only watch him with an intensity shaken by his presence and Listen with all they had in their souls.
He felt it from his fingertips barely brushing the wood to his hearts. He'd once made a promise to them, to all of them, but they were long forgotten now. Out of reach and scattered among the starlight, and in that moment he realised he was the one trapped.
Trapped on the outside of the house, when all he wanted was to be on the other side of that door of the bluest blue and be with them.
Such loneliness; just the empty tatters of a thousand broken promises beginning to descend silently back onto his shoulders – he'd done all he could to keep them, but the Traveller who ran ahead of time had each occasion let it catch up to him, once for every Listener that stared at him from the misted glass. He felt his failure so profoundly in his hearts.
But here – here, time stood still. Time held no meaning here; there was no concept of the passage of it, no carefully woven fabric and no fixed points. Here, it was never too late. Here, he was allowed to stop and save them.
He felt peaceful in this little pocket of Existence where they all waited for him and this once, just this once, he made it in time and everybody lived.
The Traveller knocked on the door again a third time, this time stronger and taller than he had before when posing questions to the dark.
"Tell them I came, and no one answered. That I kept my word." He said, lifting his eyes to the windows of the house and staring at his Listeners intently. He was here. He had done it.
The Traveller had come back, though the Listeners couldn't join him now and he realised it – it was his destiny to journey on alone. As the one man left awake, despondent but persevering, while it was the destiny of all he'd touched to continue to Listen to the beating hearts at the centre of time.
They Listened as the Traveller turned and left the door, Listened still as his footfalls receded into the plunging depths of the forest, and Listened further until only the silence surged softly backward to greet their phantom guises.
And somewhere a Traveller awoke, tried to clutch at the remnants of a strange fading dream, and continued on once more.
Which Doctor did you see? This was a joy to write and I highly recommend this poem as a fantastic read. Your thoughts, as ever, are so incredibly appreciated, drop a review on your way out. Thanks! :)