Doctor Who: I Am The Master by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473532441
Publisher: Ebury Publishing
Published: 2020-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

The Master and Margarita

MATTHEW SWEET

We know you’ll have questions, because we know everything. And we know everything because we’ve always been here.

We were here before you. We were here before the trees and flowers, before the air. We toiled among the rocks for millennia. Biting at this planet. Burrowing into it. Creating the possibility of your existence. Giving you somewhere to put down roots.

So much depends on us. When you gaze upon verdure, you gaze upon us. When, at the end, they put you into the earth, you enter our embrace. We’re in the space between your children and your lovers. We dream with you: we are the stuff of your dreams. We eat with you: we taste everything you taste. You breathe us in. You move through our atmosphere. You could see us tumbling in a ray of daylight, if you ever looked. If you ever stopped thinking of yourselves.

We are less self-involved. We think of you. And we see everything. We see you now. We can feel your inhalations and exhalations. We can sense the heat of your breath. The beat of your pulse. Your eyes moving over these words. We are scattered over this page. You just touched us. Somewhere within you, inside the space of your flesh, is the knowledge that you live in the net that we have woven. That your lives are gathered up in it. That if it was broken, you would fall.

We’re so close to you. Close as the last person you kissed.

Remember that, when we reach the end of this story.

We creep through every word of it.

They looked like body bags. It was everyone’s first thought, on entering the Garden. Therefore it had been the first thought of Ekaterina Yegorov, who, in her Stalingrad childhood, had seen more than her fair share of corpses. Back then, she’d helped her mother peel the wallpaper and boil it up for soup. She’d scrabbled for green herbs on the bombsites. She’d listened to the jokes about the butcher, who, unwilling to eat his own dwindling stock, was said to have murdered his mother and disarticulated her corpse with tender professionalism.

The Garden was warmer than Stalingrad. Oil generators, not nature, could take the credit for that. It had been cultivated thirty feet below the earth of Sakhalin Island, where, in the winter, the air was so cold and the ground so hard that it was difficult to remember the existence of summer. A natural cave system provided its home; winding prehistoric lanes and thoroughfares repurposed for the business of human agriculture. But there was something about the Garden that put Ekaterina in mind of her childhood of siege and famine. The gloom. The earthy smells. That sense of being part of a group of people waiting for good news. She did not mention this to her colleagues. Siege and famine were the plagues that the Garden had been founded to banish. They were dreaming a dream, down in the darkness. The abolition of queues, empty shelves, expensive foreign imports.

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