The Vorrh (18 page)

He slept for three hours before waking slowly, creaking in the leather and blinking into the room as she lit the lamps. There was a softness about his eyes that had never been present before. She saw the child in the old man, wonder and contentment where cynicism and greed had been scratched before. This was the man she always knew, but hardly ever met.

‘Come and sit with me,’ he said. ‘I want to tell you about my black friend and his vision of the forest.’

They talked for a very long time, only pausing the conversation to fetch wine and delay the dinner. He told her of his new friend, of his kindness and his lessons, of the chapel and the saints and a living Adam, somewhere at the heart of the wilderness of trees. He wanted her to meet ‘The Black Prince’ and share in his tales of belief and wonder. Quietly, out of nowhere, he asked, ‘The little silver crucifix that you sometimes wear; is it of great sentimental value to you?’ She looked a little confused, so he continued, ‘It’s just that I so want to give my Prince a gift; I wondered if I might purchase it from you?’

‘It’s of no real value to me,’ she lied. ‘I have several others, please do take it.’

He was delighted and crossed the little space between them to kiss her cheek. His mouth was surprisingly cold. His request satisfied, he continued to talk about his day.

They moved into the dining room, without a break in his enthusiasm or a pause in her amazement. It was to be a much lighter dinner than he usually demanded: only sixteen courses that night. At times, during his eloquent nibbling, he would adopt Seil Kor’s voice and dash ornate French with a rich Arabic bias and sonorous tones across the tabled landscape of food. She would laugh loudly at his pronunciations and roll against the joy that projected them. He was a genius at imitation. He could copy all voices, whether they belonged to strangers or friends, animals, or even the inanimate. He once held a party of poets spellbound by his portrayal of a collection of old hinges. She loved it when he was playful, when his gift was not soured by malice.

It was almost midnight when he left the table and sat down to the piano with a cigar. She went to the window and walked out into the glittering night. The city was already sleeping, and the heavens took up the sound of the creatures below, the stars making a notation of their trills and bells that rang in the darkness like glass. Whispers of Satie joined them from the room, and there seemed, in this inimitable moment, to be an agreement between time and the proximity of all things, as if clumsy humans might have a place in all this infinite, perfect darkness, if only they played at the edge. Out of sight, blindfolded, and in agreement.

* * *

The Nemesis watched from below, standing amongst the trees of a nearby garden, observing the beautiful woman, whose radiance matched the night. The faint music was entirely unknown, but it touched and realigned the heart in absolute and enigmatic ways, seemingly to stand in the shadows of previously unnoticed places. The woman on the balcony was desirable, unique, and conspicuously not part of this country. She stood for a long time, absorbing the stars, her life reaching out to all things. The Nemesis felt the temperature of her heart, the depth of her understanding, and the purity of her hope.

Then it was gone, carrying a clutch of her in its breath and vanishing into the intimacy of the dreaming city.

* * *

It was the perfect place for Tsungali’s planned ambush. The road by the water was narrowest here, and it would force the traveller to slow and watch his footfall.

He did not know how long he would have to wait – there was always the possibility of being taken off-guard, or his quarry slipping through while he slept. But white men always told you where they were. They sent out a bow wave, so that the earth and its animals would murmur, well in advance of their arrival. Their wake was immense. Crushed and contaminated, the land was forced to repair itself, even after the gentlest of their journeys.

Further back down the path, Tsungali had laid traps which would release vapours and spoors into the air when they were trampled. Traps that would tilt the colour of birdsong, or cause insects to stop and listen for too long, giving tiny vibrations of warning to the trained ear. He sat across the river, the tang sight of the rifle raised for a long distance shot. This would be
an easy kill, so he had given himself obstacles to sharpen his craft. The last two men he had killed had been close range and far too quick. He wanted to use the Lee-Enfield again and prove his marksmanship.

He had eaten an early supper of fresh river fish and was standing in the bamboo grove when the whistle passed high over his head; it changed into a light, thin rhythm of exquisite tapping. Poised and dry, it slid, beautifully, down through the leaves towards him, in a constant shift of emphasis and pause. The sight of it stopped him dead: a long, blue arrow with translucent fletching gently dropped before him in the rustling leaves.

He was not alone in the evening. He must have a rival for the blood of the plodding white man, and any being who could place such a flight should not be underestimated. Picking the arrow up, he was stunned by its lack of weight. He examined its point and found a tiny seed head of beaks, each individually joined and locked by a stitch of thread, constructing a hexagonal husk that would let air warble through its delineated contours. He knew its high trajectory meant the arrow had come from afar, but he still looked around hastily and felt a shudder course through him.

The next day, late in the morning, the birds in the low trees a mile away stopped singing for a minute or two. He found his practised place, and rested Uculipsa in the slit he’d found at the top of a flat rock. He was ready. He waited for inevitability to cross his sights.

* * *

There was no key for the door to the tower, just a slit, its edges rounded by use and the gnawing of rats. She put her flat hand inside and her fingertips touched the string. She scissor-gripped it between the polished almonds of her nails and pulled it out.

‘Let’s come back in daylight, mistress,’ Mutter said.

She heard real concern, not fear, in his voice. The oil lamp was smoking and the night was inking in the volumes around them. What had been magical was beginning to give way to the eerie.

‘Yes,’ she said, letting the string fall back to the other side of the door. ‘We will return in the morning. With new light, we will see so much more.’

They climbed back to the civilised part of the house. Lost in her thoughts, she exited the stairwell brushing cobwebs and dust from the folds in her dress. It took her some moments to realise that her action was purely mechanical, designed to announce her arrival – there was nothing on her clothing to be removed.

The light declared that it would be a glorious day, limply draped in water at first, but with a glowing intensity that would burn off any trace of shadow by noon. They climbed the stairs to the third floor in a saturated brightness that followed their ascent, pencil-thin rays of sun spinning through the singing attic, creating a magnificent landscape of shifting perspective. At the door, she retrieved the string once again and tugged on it eagerly. With a meaty click, the door opened and they stepped into another stairwell.

‘I sometimes wonder if this house will ever end,’ she said, as she began to climb up the wooden, panelled tube. At the apex was a large, circular table, sheltering under the beautiful curves of a domed roof. A brass rod and lever pointed down to the faded silk cloth, which covered the disc. She knew instantly what it was, and her heart pounded with glee.

She pulled the cloth from the disc to expose its subtle curve. Reaching up, she drew the lever down, while holding the thick, brass knob at the end of the rod. A panel in the ceiling slid open, sending dappled light onto the table. She turned the knob and the juddering blurs cohered into an image of the city below. Mutter was leaning on the white surface when a horse and carriage crossed the back of his hand. He pulled away, as if stung.

‘It’s alright, Sigmund,’ she said. ‘It’s just a picture.’

She twisted the knob and the city span and turned under her control. Continually adjusting the lever and the rod, she selected and focused on the distant life at her will. She trawled the contours of the horizon and the black shadow of the Vorrh, before focusing tightly on the cathedral door. Marvelling at her perfect detachment, she caught all the faces of those who passed through the great door, their purpose and activity reduced and smeared across the white dish for her inspection and delight.

It was then that she saw another potential rise up from the milky whiteness: this camera obscura could be the solution to the cyclops’ discontent. From here, he could view the city at a safe distance, saturating his curiosity in its shifting image. She decided to make a surprise of it and bring him up to the attic room without telling him why.

On the morning of the street market in the town square, she dressed him in warm clothes, unlocked the doors and led him through the house. He had not been outside his rooms since the traumatic day of Ghertrude’s arrival and the Kin’s demise. He looked at everything and marvelled at the shrinkage which had occurred, relative to his own growth. Mutter led the way up into the attic, as Ishmael, then Ghertrude, followed behind. They stepped into the singing room and she caught his hand in a gentle camouflage of restraint. Against their expectations, he recognised the contrivance in the room instantly.

‘How wonderful,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s a Goedhart Device.’

Mutter and Ghertrude were stunned. ‘A what?’ she said.

‘A Goedhart Device, one of the rare and unique instruments of Joanhus Goedhart.’

At the word ‘Goedhart’, the floor chimed with a deeper and more significant resonance. He pulled away to examine the strings. Ghertrude felt an irrational anger begin to grow inside her.

‘Let’s go to the door,’ she said, setting off quickly across the room,
with Mutter following closely. But Ishmael could not be rushed and made his way slowly towards them, delighting in the wires and their reaction when he murmured into them. He touched them all, pulling at the cords attached to the roof, stroking the feathers and feeling the weight of the metal balls with an increasing pleasure.

‘We have not come to see these things,’ Ghertrude snapped, sensing the importance of her gift was being diluted by the inconsequential and irrelevant intrusions and his understanding of them. He left his enquiries reluctantly and caught them up, strumming five of the strings in a discordant slash en route. They climbed into the dark, octagonal chamber and stood around the circular table. She grabbed the controls and, with a dramatic flourish, twisted the projector into life. The narrow parting in the roof sprang open and the market jumped onto the table, shimmering with activity, colour and bustle. Mutter, sensing the growing emotion, moved back down the stairwell to search in the attic for a window or an opening.

Ghertrude watched the cyclops. He stood very still, slightly bent over the table. His eye was enormous, starting from his head. He was pale, a greasy film of perspiration on his skin reflecting the light of the scene below. Suddenly, her body reinstated the revulsion she had felt when she had first seen him; that moment seemed decades away now. Their intimacy and her growing feelings for him had made his face normal: wonder and secrecy had repaired his learned abnormalities, while familiarity and desire had stitched up their differences.

She was overpowered by the shock of the old feeling, especially as they stood together, in a moment which could turn in any direction. Had she made a mistake in bringing him here? Why did he look so? A tear splashed onto the glowing disc, briefly creating another tiny lens. He made an indecipherable sound, deep in his chest. She thought, at first, that it was a composite of longing, but as it slid over her array of perception it changed, taking on sharper and more alarming tinctures. The second tear fell, and she was overcome by the need to go to him – to
touch and reassure – and the desire to escape. The table seemed to get brighter as the room blacked around them.

He started to undress as she watched, unable to do or say anything. As he unbuckled his belt, he became aware of her stillness, its perfection denting the air, and angrily pointed at her blouse while yanking at his trousers. When she did nothing, the pointing hand converted into a clenching fist that snatched the docile lace and wrenched her forward. Pearl buttons flew in all directions, and she was about to cover her startled breasts when he shouted, ‘For me, you for me!’ She closed her eyes and slowly removed the wrecked blouse and the thin straps of her chemise beneath. He pulled away the rest of her clothing, trampling it and cracking the fallen buttons under his impatient, stiff feet.

His purple cock was enormous, its spiralled barrel twisting and telescoping back and forth with his heavily beating heart. His eye continued to drip tears, now onto her legs as he braced her across the table. The blurrily focused crowd and the now-clumsy architecture smeared on her naked belly and her torn clothing. Their bodies united in the silent light and deep inside she gave up, wanting the keys to be taken away. She wanted to be a child again, with no understanding; to rip her guile into a forgetting womb and pamper offspring by a warm hearth, to let milk drown her lime and become inside out, gloving another life that would fold her to a gentle, smiling death, where all spoke of her wisdom and love. In the long time of silence before he withdrew, a ruthless, automatic kindness unfolded in him, its weight matching the shock of excitement which laughed secretly in Ghertrude. The rawness of both expressions bound them together in a shame that was sublime in the depth of its contradiction.

He fell back as she leaked on the polished surface of the porous, inert table. Low on its right-hand side, blind to their panting bodies, a drawer lay open in untraceable measures. It exposed a shallowness in its recess which was gently covered with a curved, articulated piece of polished wood. Had they examined it, they would have a found a tiny cleft, oiled
by perpetual moisture, concealed beneath the tongue-like flap. It sat, expectant, and totally unnoticed by the pair above it. As they unfurled, and only their white breathing filled the room, it slid closed, becoming seamless and invisible again.