A/N: This chapter features a Special Guest Appearance by Alt!Eight as Doctor Thomas Smith.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Rose stood at the bow of her father's zeppelin, watching as the English countryside passed below her feet. She rather liked travel by zeppelin. It was much quieter and smoother than traveling by airplane, train or car, with only a soothing background thrum to break the silence. She was alone for this trip, save for the pilot and a couple of crewmembers.
"We should be at Blyth in thirty minutes, Miss," said the pilot, Captain James MacLaren.
"Thank you, James," said Rose. She was actually fully qualified to fly the zeppelin herself, but given her mental state as of late, she didn't think it would be wise. Except for two nights in John's bed, she hadn't slept solidly for the past week.
John. She felt like she was betraying him somehow. Not only had she allowed him to believe her stress as of late came from some top-secret project at Torchwood, she was now quite literally sneaking off to meet his father without his knowledge. But how could she possibly explain this to him?
Yeah, I'd like to visit your father to find out his views on the Big, Bad Wolf. Oh, no reason--I just think I might be it. Or at least that's what people keep telling me.
Rose gave a soft snort at her own thoughts. Lately, she was having trouble deciding if she was going mad, or the universe was.
The minutes ticked by until the docking tower at Blyth was in view, and Rose had to sit down and fasten her seatbelt per safety regulations. Most towns of any size had a docking tower anymore; they were almost as common as railroad stations. Fellows was apparently too small even for that. As John had said, the only thing of interest there was a private academy that was considered one of the best in England, and certainly the best in the North. Rose imagined the richer parents were quite put out that they couldn't just drive in their zeppelins to drop their little darlings off for the term.
It only took a few minutes for the crew to make fast the zeppelin. Rose stood and headed for the exit.
"I'll only be a couple of hours, at most," she told the captain. "I'll call to let you know when I catch the train back to Blyth."
"Yes, Miss," said James.
The docking tower was actually built onto the railroad station, a convenience Rose was not ungrateful for. She checked the schedules, found a train headed out to Fellows, and showed her pass to get into the first-class compartment.
Then it was back to waiting, with only her thoughts to keep her company.
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods;
And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods,
And sought throughlands and islands numberless years,
Until he found, with laughter and with tears,
A woman of so shining loveliness
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress.
Fellows was one of those villages that invariably earned the sobriquet "quaint" in travel guides. It might even get a "charming" or possibly "picturesque." Rose thought it lovely. It had an old-fashioned feel to it, and Rose vaguely expected to see boys in Norfolk suits on bicycles and girls wearing frocks and curls in the street. She glanced down at the address she'd found for Doctor Thomas Smith. Even if his house was hard to find, she expected she could walk anywhere in the village in fifteen minutes at most. Still, she stopped long enough to ask a friendly-looking older man for directions.
"Jus' take this street down, turn right just before the church, and it'll be the fifth house on the left past the cemetery," he said. "Can't miss it. Lovely rosebushes."
"Thanks," said Rose, and she went on her way. She vaguely realized she was garnering some strange looks; there was no doubt that she was an outsider. Rose hardly minded. She was used to people whispering as she passed, especially after her recent spate of tabloid coverage. Small-town gossip being what it was, she thought it likely that more than a few people here knew who she was and with whom she was in love.
Turn right just before the church, she thought, and did so. It was a typical country church, a stone structure with a graveyard out back. Without knowing why, Rose found herself drawn to the cemetery. It didn't take her long to find what she was unconsciously searching for.
PAULA JEAN TAYLOR SMITH
1974-2000
EMILY GRACE SMITH
INFANT
Rose heard herself gasp as she looked at the graves. The reality of this woman and this baby, John's wife and child, suddenly hit her like a slap. She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears forming in her eyes as she stooped down, unable to hold herself upright.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the stones, not knowing why she said it. "I'm so sorry."
She didn't know how long she stayed there before quiet footsteps interrupted her reverie. Wiping away her tears, she pulled herself to her feet and turned to face whoever was approaching. She recognized him at once.
He wasn't tall, only a couple of inches taller than Rose herself, but he had great presence and held himself like a king. Though he was in his sixties, he betrayed no signs of infirmity, and his features were still very handsome.
"Doctor Thomas Smith?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"I'm Rose Tyler," she said. "I-I'm in love with your son."
He nodded. "Yes, I recognized you, Miss Tyler. I confess I would have expected to see you in John's company." His voice was beautiful to listen to, gentle and melodic.
Rose's head spun. How was she supposed to explain to him why she was here? "Um, there was something--something I had to do on my own."
"I see." He held out his hand, which Rose belatedly noticed held two white roses, one in full bloom and the other just a bud. "The bud is for Emily's grave," he explained. He himself held a third bloom, this one red, and that was when Rose realized that next to Paula's grave was a joined headstone. One side had Thomas Smith's name on it along with his birth date, and the other side read "Grace Anne Smith."
Quietly, reverently, Rose placed the rosebud on Emily's grave and the full bloom on Paula's.
I want to take care of him, she thought helplessly, as if she were confessing to Paula. I want to protect him and love him, but I don't know what to do.
She stood and turned to Thomas again. He held out one hand.
"Will you join me for tea, Miss Tyler?" he asked.
Rose took his hand, offering a shy smile. "I'd love to. But please, call me Rose."
He smiled at her and guided her hand to the crook of his arm. "It would be my privilege, Rose. I must say, you are even more beautiful in person than you are in pictures."
"Has John sent you photos?" Rose asked.
"No," said Thomas. "However, when he told me about you, I took the simple expedient of looking you up on the Internet."
Rose laughed. "I'm surprised you're not scared to death of me, the sorts of things you'll find online."
"I have long since learned the art of telling fact from fiction, my dear. My son speaks very highly of you, and I must say that you appear to be a most accomplished young lady."
They left the graveyard together, and Rose found herself cataloguing the similarities between John and his father. Thomas had beautiful hands, just like his son. His features were strong and regular, and though he was perhaps more conventionally handsome than John, there was a resemblance. Father and son also had the same graceful economy of movement. Their major differences were in their coloring--Rose thought Thomas must have been fair-haired before the gray took over--their height and their accents. Thomas sounded like a Shakespearean actor, very unlike John's Northern accent and idiom. He must have picked that up from his surroundings, or perhaps his mother.
"Tell me, what is it that brings you to Fellows, Rose?" Thomas asked after a few moments.
"Bit of a--guess you could call it a personal quest," she said. "It's hard to explain. I don't exactly understand myself." She shook her head. "Makin' no sense at all, am I?"
"Making sense is, in my opinion, highly overrated," said Thomas. There was a glint of laughter in his eyes. "Too many attempt to force what they see and feel into boxes that 'make sense' rather than adjusting their own frames of mind and accepting what they perhaps thought impossible. It's a form of insanity, if you ask me."
"Maybe it is," Rose mused. "I fell in love with your son in two minutes. Maybe not even that. I saw him, and . . . something in me knew him. He felt the same way. Anybody else told me that, I'd say they were exaggerating. Tellin' a nice story that didn't have much to do with reality. But what I feel for John--sometimes, I think it's the only real thing."
"Would it shock you to hear that my son has said something very similar?" Thomas ushered Rose down the cobbled path to his home, and Rose saw that the rosebushes were, indeed, lovely. "You've even rendered him speechless occasionally, which is, I needn't tell you, exceedingly difficult."
Rose laughed. "Saying that about your own son!"
"If a father cannot say it, who can?" Thomas gave her a familiar cheeky smile as he opened the door and waved her in.
His house was small, but very warm and comfortable--and packed with books. Almost every available surface was crowded with books, most old, most large. Thomas ushered her into the parlor. Two armchairs sat on either side of a small table. One was occupied by a sleek gray cat. Thomas indicated the other.
"Please, take a seat, Rose. I'll be needing that chair presently, Spenser," he said to the cat. It looked at him with large yellow eyes, apparently unimpressed. "An ungrateful guest in my house, Spenser. He took up residence here two winters ago and now considers it his right to demand food, lodging and whatever surface suits his fancy to rest upon." Thomas withdrew to the kitchen, where he started making tea.
Rose took a look around at her surroundings. She felt instantly comfortable here; it was, after all, where John had grown up. Her eyes caught a black-and-white photograph, and she took a closer look. It was a wedding picture. She recognized Thomas, young and even more handsome, looking at a beautiful, dark-haired woman with utter adoration in his eyes.
John's mother, she thought, and set the picture aside, a lump growing in her throat again.
Sitting on the table was a small book, which Rose picked up. It was a slim volume of Yeats's poetry. She flipped through it, finally settling on one poem.
" 'Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?'" she read softly to herself. " 'For these red lips, with all their mournful pride/Mournful that no new wonder may betide/Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam/And Usna's children died.'"
" 'We and the labouring world are passing by:/Amid men's souls, that waver and give place/Like the pale waters in their wintry race/Under the passing stars, foam of the sky/Lives on this lonely face.'" Thomas entered, quoting the poem's second stanza and carrying a tea tray laden with a silver tea service and a plate of shortbread biscuits. " 'The Rose of the World.' I know it quite well."
"I memorized it once when I was in school," said Rose. "It was the title, and 'The Secret Rose' was too long."
Thomas took the book from Rose's fingers. "Try to quote the last stanza from memory."
"Don't think I can, but I'll give it a try," said Rose. She closed her eyes, trying to remember the tricks she'd used to memorize it once before. "Um, 'Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode'--is that right?" She opened one eye, and Thomas nodded. He dislodged Spenser from his chair and sat down. " 'Before you were, or any hearts to beat/Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;/He made the world to be a grassy road/Before her wandering feet.' Did I do it?"
"You remembered better than you knew," said Thomas, pouring the tea. "Sugar and milk?"
"Please." Rose accepted the cup he offered. "It surprises me that I remembered that much. It's been years since I even thought about that poem. I always thought it was sad."
"Yeats has a certain melancholy, certainly; much like Celtic music. My Grace always loved the poem 'When You Are Old.' Do you know it?" Rose shook her head, and Thomas quoted:
"When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
"How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
"And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars."
"Tha-that's beautiful," Rose said, her voice barely above a whisper as she forced it through a tight throat. Why was she so emotional lately, she wondered?
One more thing father and son had in common, Rose decided, was that incredibly penetrating look that made her feel like they could see through to her soul. "Why are you here, Rose?" asked Thomas.
Rose sipped her tea, trying to ease her throat a bit. "Like I said, it's hard to explain. I've been," she rubbed her forehead, "I've been wondering--what would you say if I told you that a couple of words are following me around? I mean, there's been just a string of coincidences in my life the last few months, and the words 'Bad Wolf' have been involved every single time. And maybe it's insane, but you literally wrote the book on the Big, Bad Wolf, so I thought maybe--maybe you'd know what it means?"
Thomas didn't look surprised or dismayed or in any way like the question caught him off-guard. "You want to know what the Bad Wolf is?"
"Whatever you can tell me," she said.
He sat back, steepling his fingers. "Tell me in brief the story of Red Riding Hood."
"Little Red Riding Hood was taking treats to her grandmother's house when she met the Big, Bad Wolf. The Wolf went and ate her grandmother, and when Little Red Riding Hood got there, it pretended to be her grandmother, and they had the conversation about big eyes and all that. When the Wolf tried to eat her, the Woodsman came in and killed the wolf and cut it open to free her grandmother." She shrugged. "Bob's your uncle, they all lived happily ever after. 'Cept the Wolf."
Thomas took a sip of his tea. "That is not," he said, "the story of Red Riding Hood as originally told. It is the version told by the Brothers Grimm--but it is not the original tale. In an older version, told by Charles Perrault, the story ends with Red Riding Hood and her grandmother having been devoured by the Wolf, with no Woodsman to save them. In that tale, the Wolf had distracted Red Riding Hood with flowers so he could go ahead of her to her grandmother's house, though Red Riding Hood had been instructed to go straight to her grandmother's house and not get distracted along the way. The moral was that she should not have spoken to a stranger."
"That's a little twisted," said Rose.
"Oh, but you haven't heard the worst," said Thomas. "The Grimm version was a cleaned-up version of Perrault's, but Perrault's was utterly sanitized compared to the original tales. In one of them, the Wolf doesn't devour the grandmother; he kills her, pours her blood into a bottle and slices her flesh on a plate. When Red Riding Hood arrives, the disguised Wolf tells her to eat and drink, and she does. Then he tells her to take off her clothing and throw it on the fire, and she does. Then he tells her to get in bed beside him, and she does. After that, he devours her."
Rose shivered. "Okay, that is worse. Why would they tell stories like that?"
"Because the Wolf is the gatekeeper," said Thomas. "He is tester and judge. He enforces the limitations of civilized behavior. One like Red Riding Hood, who transgressed those limitations, had to die, you see. The Wolf exists at the edges of what we can do, and what we are allowed to do. To stray outside those bounds . . ." He spread his hands. "Well. In the original tales, the Wolf was a moral guardian. As time went on, as roles began to be questioned, he became a villain to be slain. No one likes limitations; nonetheless, they are necessary to society as a whole. Can you imagine one without any limits, either moral or physical?"
"And the Wolf?" asked Rose. "Does the Wolf have limits?"
"In the original tales, no," said Thomas. "The Wolf was a limit in and of himself."
I am the Bad Wolf.
"Does that help you any, Rose?" Thomas asked.
"Would you think I'm totally crazy if I said--if I said I think so?" asked Rose. Oddly, she did feel like a question much deeper than she even knew had been answered.
"We're all crazed in this world." Thomas gave her a gentle smile. "You no more than anyone else, and less than most."
Rose smiled back. "John said I'd end up falling for you if I ever met you."
"I believe at this point, I should say something to the effect of, 'I've still got it,'" said Thomas in a downright grave tone.
"You do," Rose said, and laughed, and Thomas laughed with her. "Listen, if you . . . would you not tell John I was here?"
"I'll have no need to," said Thomas, "as you will tell him yourself."
Rose hesitated briefly, but she knew he was right. "I will. Once I've figured out what to tell him, that is."
"I find the truth generally works best, even if you don't know all of it," said Thomas. "Trust him, Rose."
With my life. With my heart.
They talked on for a time, Thomas telling her stories of John's youth and Rose telling him about her life and family. The tea cooled and the afternoon shadows deepened, and Rose suddenly realized she needed to get back home.
"It's been wonderful meeting you," she finally said. "I've got to get back, but I hope we can visit soon, John and me."
"I look forward to it," said Thomas. He stood with Rose and pressed the little volume of Yeats into her hand.
Rose blinked. "I can't take this--it's over a hundred years old!"
"Take it," Thomas insisted. "A gift for my future daughter-in-law."
"But John and I haven't even discussed--"
"You will. My son is no fool. He will ask, sooner or later, and you love him too much to say no," said Thomas. "I'm happy for him. I never married again after Grace died because I never loved again. John is more fortunate. Far more fortunate."
Rose lowered her head, the turmoil within her raw and painful. He was right; she loved John to the point that the thought of marrying him sounded like heaven. But if Aiden was right . . .
"Thank you," she said, lifting her head and looking at Thomas through her tears. "I'll treasure this."
"May I escort you to the railroad station?" asked Thomas.
Rose smiled and took his arm. "I'd be honored."
As night fell, Rose sat in the zeppelin, headed back to London. She held the book of poems in her hand and traced the faded lettering on the cover. She still didn't know what she'd tell John, but she knew one thing: no matter what Aiden said, John felt like home to her. Almost unconsciously, she opened the book.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.
A/N: The poems are all from Yeats. The beginning and end quotes are from "The Stolen Child"; the second excerpt is from "The Secret Rose"; and Rose and Thomas quote "The Rose of the World" and "When You Are Old."
The story of Little Red Riding Hood comes from a lot of sources, but the really awful one is quoted by Neil Gaiman in The Doll's House. Its source is unknown.