Entrance the
Doctor
“Doctor!”
The doctor was not sleeping; he never slept these days. But waking? That
was another trial entirely, and he felt his days. And his nights were plagued
with dreams.
“Doctor!” the voice shouted again,
banging loudly against the front door.
Who could it be at this hour of the morning? The doctor grumbled
and rolled into a sitting position. And
where was his butler?
“Who’s there?”
“Simon Temple,” the voice
called. “There’s an emergency at the central dome. You’ve been summoned!”
Simon Temple? Who was that? That new guy in town, was it? What was he
being summoned for – how could he help in an emergency? What time was it?
“I’ll
be right down,” the doctor called, groaning and rubbing at his eyes. He picked up
a slice of the tree-fruit he’d left at his bedside, cure for aching limbs.
Though his limbs did not ache, he felt they should, and took the necessary
precautions. Age thrived more in his head than his flesh.
If they needed a doctor, then the prophetic utterance had held true. A
murder then, two.
Lighting a candle in the saucer
near his bedside, the doctor slipped on his slippers. Shadows danced against
the wall in the flickering flame, turning ghoulish simple shapes, and inane
items into nightmares.
A perfect garden with a poisoned
pool; an unblemished faun dying, suddenly, from some uncaught sickness; an
eternal lush field, flower-full and yellow-green with luxurious grasses, suddenly
bursting into flame, a volcanic maw opening and gorging on the meadow.
The stuff of dreams danced along the walls in sinister shadows, and the
doctor sat motionless as a mouse struck by the screeching owl, muscles deaf to
motion.
“Doctor? Are you coming?”
“I’ll be there shortly. Run on
ahead and let them know I’ll be coming. I need to collect a few things first.”
The doctor rummaged through his
closet, picking out his nurse whites and surgeon’s mask.
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