Doctor Who: Time Trips by Cecelia Ahern

Author:Cecelia Ahern
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448142323
Publisher: Ebury Publishing

ALL HAD DEPARTED from that meeting of the School of Night but for Doctor Dee and the newest member, one who always wore black. He offered Dee a gift: a black, circular looking glass fashioned from obsidian stone.

‘A specularibus lapidibus,’ explained the dark-robed candidate.

‘Yes,’ Dee agreed. ‘A scrying-glass, and a good one at that. Where didst thou find it?’

‘Aztec loot, plundered from a Spanish conquistador. It is said that sublime visions can be conjured by it.’

Dee took the object and stared into it, mesmerised by its smooth black surface. He had always been tempted by the dark arts. He saw his ghostly reflection in the polished volcanic stone.

‘One might then see through a glass darkly…’ he muttered.

‘And I have something else that will help in the scrying,’ added the other man.

He produced a lacquered wooden box and slid open its lid. Something twitched within and emitted a fetid odour. Dee peered at a creature inside: a fat, purpled slug that squirmed and shimmered.

‘An incubus?’ Dee gasped.

‘Yes,’ the man took it out and held it towards Dee’s face.

The head of the incubus began to pulsate. Transfixed, Dee felt his revulsion change to a more terrifying emotion: desire. All at once horror became seduction and, as the aura of the creature invaded his senses, Dee began to salivate. With a quiver it leapt onto his face. He felt it on his beard, against his mouth, wet upon his lips. His neck arched back in a spasm of exquisite terror as it slithered inside of him.

Moving quickly, it lodged itself deep within his guts. The incubus took possession of him. Blood, bile, phlegm, Dee felt it in all his humours, but it made its dwelling place that most vulnerable part: his very soul of yearning. And it took his conscious mind for a moment too, wiping the memory of its visitation from Dee’s recollection.

‘Something else for the scrying?’ Dee asked, looking into the now apparently empty box.

‘Here,’ the man pulled out a slip of parchment scored with grotesque characters. ‘Use this incantation. Call upon the Hieroglyphic Monad.’

Three nights later Dee and his fearful pupil Thomas set the obsidian scrying glass on an alchemists’ ‘table of practice’ amid the vast library of his house in Mortlake. They bowed before this altar of blasphemy draped with a tapestry of cabalistic symbols. The young assistant trembled as his mentor began to mutter a dreadful incantation.

‘Sir,’ the pupil whispered in protest. ‘Is this not the dark art of witchcraft?’

The magus in his black clerical robes and skullcap turned to admonish his acolyte.

‘Look upon the black stone,’ he commanded. ‘The scrying glass will manifest sublime visions. Then we may witness the divine and speak with angels.’

‘But what if in our attempt to conjure angels we summon demons?’

The older man shuddered a moment. A flickering, fugitive memory of his own demonic infestation. It had come to vivid life by night in grotesque and lustful phantasms, then had left him oblivious by morning. All that lingered was a hunger for dark knowledge and that dreadful brooding of morose delectation.

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