CONTENTS
Cover
About the Authors
Title Page
Introduction
The Arabian Knightmare
by James Goss
The Fortunate Isles
by David Llewellyn
The Triple Knife
by Jenny T. Colgan
The Ghosts of Branscombe Wood
by Justin Richards
Copyright
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781473530416
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BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing,
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
BBC Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
The Arabian Knightmare © James Goss 2015
The Fortunate Isles © David Llewellyn 2015
The Triple Knife © Jenny T. Colgan 2015
The Ghosts of Branscombe Wood © Justin Richards 2015
James Goss, David Llewellyn, Jenny T. Colgan and Justin Richards have asserted their right to be identified as the authors of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production
Executive producers: Steven Moffat and Brian Minchin
BBC, DOCTOR WHO and TARDIS (word marks, logos and devices) are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.
First published by BBC Books in 2015
www.eburypublishing.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781785940576
She is known by many names – the girl who died, the woman who lived – but the earliest, her real name, seems to have been Ashildr. There are stories and legends, myths and tales dating back from the present day to Viking times. Far too many tales to recount in a single volume like this one.
So instead we have brought together just four stories, four legends of Ashildr. They come from different times in her tremendously long life, though all from the earlier part of it. They are reproduced from different sources.
The first two stories – ‘The Arabian Knightmare’ and ‘The Fortunate Isles’ – have come to us through third parties. As a result, we cannot vouch for their authenticity or guarantee that everything, or indeed anything, in these stories actually happened.
The final two stories – ‘The Triple Knife’ and ‘The Ghosts of Branscombe Wood’ – are taken directly from Ashildr’s own journals. Again, even though the incidents they describe are recounted by Ashildr herself, we cannot be completely certain that what she wrote in her journals was the actual truth.
But whether they are all true, partly fabricated, or complete fiction, these are four of the tales that have contributed to the renowned Legends of Ashildr.
Once long ago and very far away there was a King. For there are always kings. This King of Samarkand ruled from the sands of Persia to the walls of China, from the plains of Araby to the shores of the Ganges herself. He ruled places with poetic names, because he loved to be entertained.
This King had a problem – he ruled the most romantic places in the world, and yet he was bored. So bored was he that he offered his hand in marriage to the woman who could keep him amused. And, sad to say, no woman could. Every day his Vizier brought him a new wife, and every evening, the King shook his head and cut off his wife’s. The much-widowed King became even more bored, and the Vizier became worried – for the King had started looking interestedly at the Vizier’s daughters.
One day the King was walking through the market place when he espied a pair of beautiful eyes watching him from a window. As no one ever met his eyes, the King was startled, and ceased his walk.
‘Who are you that looks at me so?’ he demanded.
A woman’s voice laughed down at him. ‘I have an answer to your question, oh King of Samarkand. You wonder why every woman bores you, do you not?’
‘I do,’ sighed the King. ‘It is a vexing problem.’
‘It is because all your brides are too frightened to speak.’ The face in shadow laughed. ‘But I am not afraid of you. If you will call me down, then I shall never bore you.’
The King looked at the figure. All he could see of this woman were her eyes. They were, he thought, very pretty eyes. The King of Samarkand laughed. ‘Very well. Come down and be my Queen.’
And so the woman did, and she was very beautiful. The King marvelled at the wisdom of his choice. Her eyes were the softest silver, her complexion clear, her smile intelligent.
‘I am the Lady Sherade,’ she announced. ‘Come let us go to your palace and be married and I shall tell you tales of marvels with which to enchant the night…’
And so she began…
‘You have heard of the voyages of Sindbad the Sailor…?’ And so began the first tale of the Lady Sherade.
In the times of the Caliph Haroun al-Raschid there lived in Baghdad the mightiest sailor, adventurer and merchant the world has ever known. His name was Sindbad, and he had voyaged far and wide over every sea upon which the sun shone.
One day there came to his doorway a young servant called Dash. The servant was drawn in by the scent of rosewater steaming up from the hot flagstones. On spying Dash, a handsome man came to the door.
‘Who are you that lingers at this doorway? Do you not know that it is the doorway of Sindbad the Sailor who has voyaged far and wide over every sea?’
Young Dash did indeed know this and said so, and furthermore added, ‘And, my lord, I know that you yourself are no less than Sindbad himself.’
At that Sindbad laughed, for he had a good sense of humour. ‘My servants are asleep, for I was entertaining them into the night with tales of my voyages and so I must break my own fast. Will you join me for some food, stranger?’
Dash gladly assented and the two sat down in a courtyard that smelt richly of aloe wood and flowers. Sindbad brought out a meal that was both lavish and delightful and the sailor told him many stories about himself and his wonderful voyages. When they had both eaten their full, he pushed back his plate and surveyed the stranger. ‘So, young man – how came you to my doors? Do you seek service?’
Dash laughed. ‘Well, I’d better, since you have no other servants.’
Sindbad bowed. ‘You have uncovered my untruth. But why should I when I can cook so well?’
‘You have no servants, my lord and also no wife?’
Here Sindbad stopped smiling. ‘I have had many servants and also many wives. Sadly, whenever I head out on a voyage, all my servants are eaten by cannibals or carried away by giant birds, and when I finally make my way home, my wives have either died or thought me dead and remarried.’ He sighed. ‘Ah well. So much for them. I must make my own way in the world.’
‘I see.’ Dash nodded. ‘And are you quite done with adventure?’
‘Why do you ask?’ said Sindbad with keen interest. ‘Is it simple chance, or has God himself brought you here?’
‘You are as clever as the market traders claim,’ the young servant smiled. ‘I have heard, oh master, of a distant land where rests a marvellous wealth of treasure. I would undertake the voyage there.’
‘And so you came to me?’ Sindbad asked.
‘Indeed, oh lord.’
‘Or did you petition every other boatman before coming to me?’
The young servant made no answer.
And so Sindbad the Sailor and Dash the servant set out on a great voyage. It went much as Sindbad’s voyages normally did. Within a few days the ship was caught up in a storm, and only by the hand of providence did a few survivors make it to shore, where they were picked off by vast and hungry serpents.
‘I knew I should never have come with you,’ wailed the navigator as he vanished into the serpent’s maw, leaving Sindbad and Dash alone.
They clambered up a tree out of the reach of the serpents, and, while the servant got his breath back, Sindbad lamented his fate. ‘Why does this always happen to me?’
‘You are,’ Dash agreed as the serpents snapped at their heels, ‘somewhat unlucky.’
Sindbad surveyed Dash curiously. ‘I wonder how much of this is your doing,’ he remarked. ‘After all, you are no servant boy.’
‘Oh, so you’d noticed,’ Dash nodded.
‘I’m not blind, girl.’ Sindbad laughed, poking a snake with a branch. ‘You need have no fear of me marrying you. Tell me, who are you?’
‘My name is Ash El Dir,’ the servant said. ‘And much, my lord, of what I have told you is true. I have travelled far and wide. My last master was a man called Ali-Baba. I did him much service. He and I discovered the fabled hoard of the Ancient Guild of Thieves, kept in a cave which only opened magically to a voice. I urged Ali-Baba to caution in what he took away, but he scooped up armfuls, and, when the thieves discovered the theft, they were able to follow the tracks of our laden mules. Ali-Baba and his wife had fallen asleep after celebrating their good fortune, and it was left to me to tidy up after their party. It was then that I noticed how full the courtyard was, because a travelling merchant had begged leave to store forty barrels of oil there overnight. As I went around tidying, I noticed that one of the barrels moved slightly, and I began to suspect the awful truth – that the Ancient Guild of Thieves had found us and were waiting to murder us in our sleep. So, I figured, as the barrels were supposed to contain oil, perhaps they should.’
‘You drowned them in oil?’ Sindbad ceased looking at the snakes and instead stared at Ash in alarm.
‘Oh no, that would be a waste of good oil. So I used tar instead.’
‘I see.’
‘The next morning, Ali-Baba marvelled that the merchant had not returned for his barrels, and delighted to think that, in addition to his marvellous treasure, he now had forty barrels of oil. He was disappointed to find instead the barrels contained forty thieves. His wife, a rather sharper woman than he, immediately suspected my involvement and ordered me to leave. I took with me a map I had found in the Thieves’ cave, which is all I had wanted.’
‘So,’ Sindbad wailed to God of his misfortune, ‘you are using me as you have used Ali-Baba.’
‘Well, yes, if you must. But, like Ali-Baba, you too will end up rich.’
‘If I do not end up eaten by snakes.’ Sindbad glanced down nervously. ‘Tell me, girl, do you have any tar on you?’
‘Oh no.’ And she laughed a laugh that was like funeral music. ‘I do not need it. Did you not know the fruit of this tree is poisonous? Come, let us gather it, and then we can feed the snakes…’
After many more such perilous encounters, Ash El Dir and Sindbad made their way out of the forest into a clearing. In the middle of the clearing was a pool of water clear as crystal. Sindbad, who had long suffered a terrible thirst, bent over it to drink, but Ash held him back.
‘This island is strange,’ she told him. ‘The animals in it are large and deadly. We should be cautious.’
Sindbad laughed at the girl. ‘On my voyages the animals are always large and deadly. Why, there was a time when I was captured by elephants—’
‘Have you ever wondered why they’re like that, though?’ Ash said, continuing to hold him back. ‘If it’s something in the ground, seeping into what they eat and drink, then maybe we should be more careful.’
But Sindbad threw himself on the ground, drinking heavily from the crystal pool. He assured her it was the finest water he had ever tasted and mocked her caution.
‘My caution?’ Ash replied. ‘It is my first shipwreck. By the way, look up.’
Hanging between the trees were thick strands of web.
‘Imagine the spiders that could weave such a web,’ laughed Sindbad.
‘I am and I think we should run.’
With a rushing and chittering, the spiders came for them – and what spiders. Fierce of fang and sharp of limb, the creatures were the size of horses, but in the place of their bodies were the screaming heads of men, calling on God to have mercy on them.
‘What can they be?’ cried Sindbad full of woe.
‘At a guess, other shipwrecked sailors,’ Ash said. She dragged him into the forest, clubbing away the first of the spiders that pursued them. It had the face of a crying boy.
‘I thank you,’ it cried. ‘I thank you for killing me.’
‘To hear is to obey,’ said Ash, and made an end of it.
‘The poor child,’ said Sindbad, beginning a lament, but Ash stopped him.
‘We need to run. Also, we need more of that poison fruit.’
‘You would tempt the spiders to poison apples?’
‘No.’ Ash pulled him on. ‘The fruit’s for you. You really shouldn’t have swallowed that water.’
Sindbad suffered agonies of purgation long and hard, calling on God in the extremes of his torments. When he awoke from them, he was in a cave, and Ash was feeding him the last of the food from her backpack. ‘Where are we?’ asked Sindbad.
‘A cave at the edge of the forest. The spiders don’t seem to like it.’
‘How did you know?’
Ash shrugged. ‘I left you here. They hadn’t eaten you when I came back.’
‘I see.’ Sindbad looked warily at the servant. ‘And where did you go?’
And Ash sat down in the sand in front of Sindbad and told him thus…
Beyond the woods, began Ash El Dir, was a clearing as though there had been a great fire. This was marked on my map as a perfect circle, and indeed it seemed so, although it went on for so far, the ground blackened and burnt as old cinders. I walked around the edge until I came to the figure of a Dervish, carved from stone.
‘Who are you that approaches this site?’ the Dervish asked me. ‘It is full of danger and I would advise you to keep away.’
I produced my map and explained to the stone Dervish that I needed to go to the centre of the clearing in order to find the amethyst I sought.
‘Beyond here is a crater,’ the Dervish said. ‘The treasure you seek lies hidden at the bottom, but, alas, young lady, I must warn you that the path is full of danger. I was placed here to guard this land. Many have attempted your quest before, and all have perished. If you will go on, you must listen to your voice and not that of those who have gone before.’
I thanked the Dervish for his words and trod on, the ground still warm beneath my feet. The crater only appeared as I came upon the very edge of it, and I made my way gently down its slopes, the pumice crumbling under foot. Shapes were planted here and there as I climbed down, and it was only when I rested my weight on one of them that I realised it was the statue of a man, but such a strange statue, made out of the same burnt ground.
The statue spoke to me. ‘Heed me, voyager, for I once sought the quest as you did. I beg you to turn back, to go back, to go away. You are lost if you press on further.’
I thanked the stone man, but climbed down further.
I came to a second statue, which again exhorted me to turn back in piteous tones.
I thanked the second statue, and carried on.
I passed a third statue and then a fourth, all urging me that it was not too late to escape.
You may wonder why I did not turn back, and indeed, I thought about it. But I considered it thus – these brave adventurers had all perished in the art of turning back. Clearly, if I too gave up and turned back, I would also perish. There was something in this land, something dreadful – some dark poison which altered the animals, had turned the shipwrecked sailors into spiders, and seemingly was able to transfix men into statues. I had, perhaps, been lucky to survive this far. So I went on, figuring no harm could come to me.
I came at last to the bottom of the crater. The heat here was still extreme, and all around me were slivers of metal which would have made fine swords. At the very darkest centre of the crater were bones made of silver. The bones seemed to move and stir as I passed them, trying to draw themselves together. They grouped themselves against me, trying to stop me from crossing further – I picked up a stave of iron, and used it to ward them off, crossing past to where a dazzling orange light came. It was an amethyst, lying in the ground.
As I picked it up, the metal bones drew themselves up, for a moment forming into a great metal man, reaching out in obeisance towards me. Then they fell to the ground and were still.
Holding the amethyst, I walked back up to the top of the crater. As I passed each of the black statues, they all ceased to call out and fell silent.
At the top of the crater, the Dervish was waiting for me. ‘You have not listened to me, and yet you have achieved your goal. The jewel you hold will protect you from the curse that has fallen over the island, just as it stopped you from being turned to stone.’
‘I see,’ I told the Dervish.
‘I have one further thing to tell you,’ said the Dervish. ‘Others will come looking for the jewel you hold. If they ask me, I shall tell them it is gone and that you have it.’
‘And I shall then, in that case, be waiting for them.’
And that is the story of how I found the amethyst which I hold here.
So Ash ended her story, and Sindbad regarded her with awe and wonder, and pressed her to give him the amethyst – just to hold, but an idea seized him that he would like to possess it for ever.
‘Alas my lord,’ she told him. ‘I fear it would do you no good. I think only I am safe to hold the stone – you are still too weak, in any case, from the curse that poisons this land.’
Sindbad agreed, and nodded, and decided to bide his time.
When he was strong enough they made their way to the shore to await rescue.
Sindbad became excited – on the horizon he could see a great iron galleon sailing towards them at great speed. He saw and he marvelled. ‘We are rescued, and we may return home to Baghdad,’ he cried, waving at the galleon.
But Ash held his arm and shook her head. ‘That galleon sails too quickly for a normal ship,’ she told him. ‘Remember the warning of the Dervish – I do not trust that ship. I fear its captain knows already that I have the amethyst fashioned into an amulet and he seeks to take it from me.’
‘But what can we do?’
Ash took him then to the other side of the island, and there they cut down wood. She held up the amulet and entreated with the spiders. As they had once been sailors, and because they feared the amethyst, they rushed to help her, weaving together the tree trunks into a raft with their webs, and fashioning a sail.
‘If we launch from this side of the island,’ said Ash, ‘we may be able to escape before that iron galleon knows we have left.’
And so they set out for their voyage home.
As they rode off onto the choppy and uncertain waters, a voice echoed over the seas to them. It cried in tones of utter blackness: ‘I am the Wizard of Marabia, the last true ruler of the Nile and I must have the amulet. Bring it to me.’
Storms took them away from the voice, and on into greater dangers.
And so ended the last voyage of Sindbad, as told by the Lady Sherade.
Delighted by what he had heard, the Mighty King let Sherade live to tell another story. ‘My lord,’ she began, ‘Sindbad and his servant Ash escaped from the mysterious Iron Galleon of the Mighty Wizard of Marabia…’
Their boat of twigs and spider’s web brought them through a storm, but after that they feared greatly for their lives, and Sindbad fell into great lamentations as the web started to snap and the boat began to sink. Just when he feared all was lost, a passing merchant ship came onto the horizon and rescued them.
The master of the vessel offered them easy hospitality and to bring them back to Baghdad. ‘My honoured guests,’ he ventured, ‘would you care to inspect the cargo? For there are some barrels I found floating in the sea that puzzle me.’
Sindbad saw and was delighted. ‘Why,’ he exclaimed, ‘this is the cargo from my wrecked ship. I am not ruined after all!’ He was quickly able to identify the cargo, and all aboard declared him a lucky man. Especially the servant Ash El Dir.
‘That’s unusual,’ she said, eyeing her lord suspiciously.
Sindbad seemed untroubled. ‘It is always happening to me,’ he informed her. ‘It is the kind of luck I have.’
Sindbad’s miraculous return to Baghdad was greeted with joy and surprise by the merchants of the port, but the famous sailor hurried home to his garden which smelt of aloes and sandalwood. ‘I am done with voyaging,’ he declared. ‘I shall cook us a feast.’
‘No, let me, my lord,’ insisted Ash. ‘You are still weak from your sufferings on the cursed island.’
‘And yet,’ Sindbad tossed a handful of cargo into the air, ‘I am feeling much better.’
‘Perhaps it is the amulet,’ Ash ventured. ‘It is regrowing your vitals, like a sapling in a new season.’
‘Oh, how lucky!’ cried Sindbad. ‘This amulet shall keep me alive all the days that are sent by God. The Destroyer of Delights shall never visit my door.’
Ash chuckled at his good humour. ‘I pray not, my lord,’ she told him. ‘For ever is not to be lived but endured. It is not for simple men.’
‘Nor servant girls either,’ laughed Sindbad, his eyes quick to follow the amulet around her neck.
No sooner had Ash brought out many fine dishes for the sailor to enjoy than there was a knock at the door. ‘It is late,’ said Ash. ‘Are you expecting anyone, my lord?’ She called through the door: ‘In the name of my master, who is there?’
‘We are but three simple travelling merchants who seek to touch the hem of Sindbad the Sailor, whom we have heard has lately returned safe.’
‘Oh Lord of Damnations,’ lamented Sindbad. ‘It is the Caliph.’
‘How so?’