Doctor Who: 1,001 Nights in Time and Space: Folktales Rescued from Around the Whoniverse

Doctor Who: 1,001 Nights in Time and Space: Folktales Rescued from Around the Whoniverse

Experience Doctor Who's adventures across time and space like never before with this beautifully illustrated collection of folk tales from around the Whoniverse. "Stories are the most important thing of all because they are just about the only living thing that lasts…" At the end of the universe, a mysterious storyteller builds a campfire to draw his audience. He has gathered tales like any minstrel of old—and his specialty is tales of the Doctor. In this book of stories both long and short, you can journey alongside the Doctor and his Companions through 24 folk tales and fables. Retold from unusual perspectives, 1001 Nights in Time and Space is a bubbling mix of heroes and villains, soldiers and monsters, princesses, goblins, demons, tricksters, computers, ghosts and gods from all across the universe… taking inspiration from the entire 60-plus years lifespan of Doctor Who. Steve Cole is an editor and children’s author whose sales exceed three million copies. His hugely successful Astrosaurs young fiction series has been a UK top-ten children’s bestseller. His several original Doctor Who novels have also been bestsellers. Paul Magrs was born in 1969 in the North East of England. He has written numerous novels and short stories for adults, teens, children and Doctor Who fans. He teaches Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University. The Storyteller’s Arrival On an empty planet in a desolate corner of the universe there was a desert of dusty jewels. A bony old horse called Chuzzlewit pulled a squeaking, ramshackle wooden caravan, slowly but quite surely. Multicolored crystals crunched under the wheels and the caravan rocked gently side to side, trying to find the carriageways that criss-crossed this once-busy world. Guiding the horse and the carriage was an old man in a tattered velvet coat. He was worn thin, with a silver mustache, and on his shoulder sat an irritable inky-black raven called Evermore. Together they inched through the devastation. It was hard to imagine what this landscape used to be. A glorious city of glass and steel or meadows of jewel-bright flowers? Now it was all just the same for miles and miles: chunks of crystal and powdery sand. The old man and his two friends pulled toward the horizon, even though it looked as if there were no places left for them to visit. Once upon another time the old man had been a storyteller of sorts, traveling the many worlds, drawing curious minds into his caravan filled with exotic books. Now the carriage was empty, apart from one single volume. “I’ve had a look in that last book,” cackled Evermore. “I can hardly make head nor tail of it. It’s all in different languages and it’s been written by a hundred different hands.” “It doesn’t matter,” said the Storyteller mildly. “So even if we ever meet anyone again on this road, that book will never mean anything to them. They’ll never be able to read it.” The old man shrugged. “We’ll see.” He was used to the raven’s endless naysaying. They had been companions for a very long time. “Sometimes I think you don’t want this library to continue, Evermore,” said Chuzzlewit. “You put such a downer on things. Don’t you want our master to get his stories out there?” The raven sneered: “I don’t think it matters, to be honest. Who cares about stories?” “I care,” said the horse wheezily. “The Storyteller and I both care!” “Look at this place!” the raven cried in exasperation. He flapped his dusty wings and a couple of feathers dropped off him. “It’s desolate and lifeless. It needs . . . it needs so much more. Water, fire, people, energy. All the things that life requires. Stories are just a luxury on top of that! Who cares about stories when there isn’t anything else?” The Storyteller shook his head at his squabbling friends. “When there’s nothing else left in the world, that’s when we need the stories most of all.” “Sentimental old fool,” the raven said. Chuzzlewit gasped. “Don’t you say that! We would both be skeletons lying by the roadside without this kind old man in our lives.” “Speak for yourself!” snickered the raven, but he knew the old nag was right. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter if our last remaining book is unreadable and messy and the work of many hands,” the Storyteller piped up suddenly. “Do you know why?” The raven sighed. “No. Tell us, old man. Why is that?” The Storyteller smiled craftily. “Because all the stories that ever there were are all inside my head.” The horse cried out: “Hurrah!” The raven said, “Rubbish!” or words to that effect. “It’s true,” the old man beamed. “I have memorized all the best ones. The most important ones. Or the ones, shall I say, that I liked the most.” The raven wasn’t impressed. “And what use is that? What help is that going to be to anyone?” The old man didn’t reply, for he had wearied of arguing with the shabby and ill-tempered bird by now. On went their journey through the dusty, trackless wastes. Time and space were great dissemb