XXVI

A Pescatorial Conundrumor,

A fl5/;/ ProlJ/em

Nr. Whitby, Yorkshire, 650 A.D.

'Well, now, let me see. Hm.' commented thebenevolent, old and therefore wise angel, fixing thetrembling yet unafraid man in a narrow blue glare. 'Agift of song! Good lord! Without undue modesty, mygood man, I might say that you could just as well askfor the moon. Hm. No, wait a second - I'm sure wecan do something. What did you say your name was,hmmm?'

The angel grappled with the strange bindingsalong his upper body, pulling them outwards as if theywere made of dough. His trousers raised slightly thefurther outwards he pulled. His beneficiary regardedhim in awestruck wonder.

'M-rn-my name is Cedmon, good spirit of theone high Lord. A Yorkshire cowherd, blessed by yourfavour.'

'Csedmon ....Ceedmon ....hmmm .... soundsfamiliar .. Ah yes! Bede!'

'I beg your pardon, angel?''No, Ceedmon, no matter, no matter. So you

are a faithful worshipper of the Glory-God, the creatorof man. Most commendable, my good man, mostcommendable. And you, also, are no longer a springchicken, hmmm? Perhaps you would no longer like tobe that cowherd, hmmm? Well, anyhow, let us seewhat we can do about that song.'

Czedmon, sitting humbly on his rough paletteof straw, considered what a strange dream he washaving. So realistic. And the strange edifice that hadappeared as he was walking back from the ale-drinkingat the mead-hall, the thing made of some blue materialwith which Csedmon was distinctly unfamiliar. It hadmade a sound like that of Dzeghrefn's stomach beforehe collapsed from drinking too much, only louder, andthen - it was just there, as if it had always existed anddared anyone to notice anything unusual about it. Ithad opened, and Ceedmon had initially been afraid thatit was a devils device, sent to drag his soul down intothe bottomless hells once harrowed by the everlastingSon, until he realized that there was really notemptation involved. He would walk on, ignore theemerging occupant, and not mention the hallucinationto anyone. Too much ale always disagreed with himanyway, and allowed a window into his soul at whichthe father of Cain could knock.

Belatedly, Ceedmon's mind had realized whathis eyes had indicated a good few lines earlier. Theemerging occupant! He tensed, ready to avert his eyes

and make the sign of the holy Cross, and peered at thefigure through the darkness. An old man, older thanhimself, in odd clothing and carrying a twisty stick. Andheading straight towards him.

'Ah, a person in this desolate place. Goodevening, my man, and could you tell me who might bein charge here?'

Czedmon's beer befuddled brain could hardlycope with this, making a fervent cross and whimperingslightly, and the old man found himself asked whetherhe were a devil sent to torment men. The peasant alsomentioned something about a lettuce, which was quiteincomprehensible.

'A devil? Of course not. Hmm ...We are inEngland, are we not?'

Brightening considerably, Czedmon hadpraised God aloud for sending him an angel to answerthe many prayers that had been asked before sleep eacheve, and prostrated himself on the ground. The oldman had looked pleased that his angelic identity hadbeen penetrated, and had thawed a little, speaking toCsedmon almost conspiratorially.

'Well, since even angels can get cold, and it isless than warm for my advanced years, perhaps wecould talk somewhere a little warmer?' He had hrnmedquestioningly, and found himself ushered a shortdistance and into a ramshackle hut, nearly as poisonoussmelling as the cowherd himself and scarcely warmerthan the ambient temperature. Csedmon knew this wasa dream, for an angel would scarcely deign to comedown to earth - well, not in a flaming chariot, but closeenough - for a lowly cowherd's humble requests inperson.

Now the cowherd, name newly revealed andfull of trust in this emissary of the Father of Glory,peered up at the angel through the darkness andpractically glowed with expectation. Sighing, the old

man explained that the type of versification he would betaught would be of the religious variety, experimentallyscratched a few signs into the ground, reluctantly learntthat Csedmon was illiterate, and set about the few hoursof lessoning he would have with the man before dawn.

The Doctor, stick tucked under his arm andrather pleased with the discovery that one of the earliestand greatest poets ever had been created through hisassistance, headed back to the TARDIS in the darkesthour before the dawn. He left a happy yet exhaustedcowherd snoring on a flea infested straw palette behindhim, in a hut that smelt like a latrine - for obviousreasons, he had discovered in the middle of thetutoring, when Cedrnon had needed to absolve himselfof some of that noxious brew they drank. The man hadtalent, undiscovered talent and an aptitude foralliteration, in the Doctor's humble opinion. Of course,he knew that they would be hearing great things ofCeedmon. In the future.

London, nr. the Fleet River, late 1400 A.D.

Voices, carrying on the wind across the river.

The Doctor listened with half an ear,comparing the fluidity of the near Norman tongue tothe guttural and harsh, yet oddly effective sounds ofthat essentially Germanic language he had heard someseven centuries ago. Well, last night. It was a sunnyday, the light glinting off the river a little ahead of theTARDIS, staining the clear blue water golden. Theriver was almost clean enough to see every fish floatpast, although the Doctor was aware that justdownstream, nearer the centre of London, it became aslower moving and altogether murkier proposition. Heturned as Susan, his dear granddaughter, for whom hewould steal, kidnap - and yes, kill if necessary -struggled to drag their fishing gear out of the somewhatanachronistic blue police box that the Doctor,sometimes sadly, thought was closer to a home thananywhere he had yet been. The girl's dark hair glintedblue in the sun, and the Doctor waited and watched herwith benevolent pleasure as she pulled the rods downthe bank towards him. He was intensely proud of hisresourceful granddaughter, and knew that he wouldhave to find her a more permanent home and tuitionsomewhere, soon. She was too bright to be longsatisfied by the crumbs of information he himself, evenwith ran and Barbara's aid, could throw her way. Butfor now, the two would enjoy their little rest together,for the teachers had found the TARDIS library andwere disinclined, in the Doctor's opinion, to go homeimmediately. By some fluke of time and space, he had

XXVII

been able to fulfil a promise to take Susan fishing. Hewas pleased, for although he had great control over hisTARDIS and merely enjoyed the hobo challenge ofletting the machine to its own devices, the Doctordoubted that even he would be able to force it tofunction as a divining rod for suitable fishing points .

...a loss to the native tongue, I think .. ''....many talented works, and some more m

progress, so I heard ...wonder what...publication? ..'

The Doctor and Susan set up to fish in thedrowsy sunshine, beyond the vision of those voices, ifnot their words, and aimed to relax for the afternoon.

' first name? ...didn't know ... '' Geffrey. Geffrey Chaucer..'

As dusk started to fall and grandfathersupervised his teenage protege as she packed up theircatches - a marvellous quantity and quality for a riverrunning through the vicinity of the capital of Britain, theDoctor believed - the stars began to shine more brightlythan Susan had ever seen.

'They look like eyes, Grandfather, and theylook as if they've been crying!'

'Very descriptive, my dear, yes, quite so.Now, let us move back to the TARDIS and be offHrnm? I have had enough poets for one day, my dear.'

Where a glint of blue that was neither hair norwater had shown in the sunlight through the trees, therewas soon nothing except the mournful calls of theevening birds.

The Monastery of Monkwearmouth-Jarrow, 728A.D.

Surrounded by papers, in a bright yet fustyscriptorum, the blue police box materialized. TheDoctor peered out and coughed, seeing the motes of

XXVIII

dust dance in the light. Somehow, the middle agedmonk writing at the table had completely failed tonotice the not inconsiderable sound and sight of theTARDIS materialization directly behind him. For amoment, the Doctor thought that the man might bedead, but the steady scritch scritch of pen onparchment soon reassured him. Just deaf

The Doctor inched forwards and glanced atwhat the man was writing. It was a poem, ifsurrounded by prose, and the Doctor was provisionallyquite impressed. He could probably do better, ofcourse, but the short piece showed a definite talent andan aptitude for alliteration. 'Now let us praise theguardian of the heavenly kingdom, the power of theCreator and his consideration, the works of the Fatherof Glory, as he, the eternal Lord, brought about everymarvellous thing ... ' Slowly, he became aware that thescritch of the pen had ceased, and that rather than themonk being dead, he was glaring at the Doctor as iftrying to force him out of existence through sheerirritation. Rising to the somewhat inconvenientoccasion, the Doctor inclined his upper body in a bowand introduced himself

'Good day, holy brother. May I introducemyself? I am the Doctor, and I apologise if I havedistracted you. You are a most talented poet, I feelobliged to say.'

The monk uttered a short, barking laugh andcommented that he in his turn, felt obliged to say to themost impolite stranger that this work was the creationpoem of the great poet Csedmon, rather than his own,and that the 'Doctor's' opinion on the subject of poetrywas not worth having if he couldn't recognise that fromjust a few lines. And what was that ugly bluemonstrosity in the corner of his room, and could it beremoved as soon as possible, since it was distractinghim.

A little taken aback, the Doctor switched onthe famous congenial charm and inserted theconspiratorial twinkle into his blue eyes.

'My dear sir, I am of course most upset that Ihave pulled you from your work. Maybe I can repayyou in some way, hmm?'

Just before intellectual curiosity took overfrom anger, making him considerably less caustic, themonk commented tersely that all the repayment hewished was for the Doctor to leave him to hiswork ... 'But tell me, sir, before you leave, what arethose strange clothes that you wear? And the bluething - am I correct to surmise that it must be some sortof travel device? For how else would it get here, andwith such a sound - like Deeghrefn with a stomach ache- forgive me, you would not know Dreghrefn, ofcourse.'

'Why, my dear holy brother, of course, ofcourse! An explanation. And perhaps you, in turn, willtell me of your works and of Czedmon's, hmmm? Overdinner?' The Doctor rubbed his hands together inanticipation and satisfaction. What a learningexperience for Susan!

'A most amicable arrangement, sir. In thatdevice?' He glanced warily at the TARDIS.

'But of course! We have the most wonderfulfish! Caught in the River Fleet! Oh, so you like fish?Good. Hm. Come on, come ... .'

The sound died out in the fusty scriptorum asthe blue door closed upon the Doctor and theVenerable Bede.