The Vorrh tv-1

by B Catling

  Sidrus was faced again with the impossibility of his task – he could not go into the forest, and there was nobody else who could prevent catastrophe. It had been easier dispatching the Erstwhile than trying to protect the straying man from afar. The twins had been easy enough, but he knew there would be others sniffing out the bounty attached to Williams’ desertion, and the murders he had committed that had sparked the tinder of the Possession Wars.

  His only hope now was that Tsungali would be lost in the tangled depth, or that one of the creatures of the core would permanently interrupt his travels. But Sidrus had little faith in these hopes, and he prayed again for a darker shadow to cross the hunter’s path, something that would give the Englishman a chance to fulfil his evolution.

  * * *

  The mirror session was less alarming than the bell sitting. Her body remained calm throughout, though her face went through a colourful dictionary of rictus. It spasmed into unbelievable contortions, each time returning to its natural beauty. Muybridge was fascinated; he had never seen anything like it before. His daily demonstrations and meetings began to bore him, and he felt himself yearning for more time with the exotic creature in front of his camera. He revelled in the seclusion, where nobody knew him or what he was doing; it was so utterly different from the hoards of ill-informed on whom he had spent so much precious time. Squirreled away with Josephine and his inventions, he was becoming happy again.

  The zoopraxiscope had changed beyond recognition. He soon realised that the earlier models had been little more than clumsy toys to entertain a gawping crowd. True, they had demonstrated the possibility of movement being projected into the unsuspecting eye, the mechanical delusions of leaping horses and running figures, paintings becoming alive. But the new machines sought a very different quarry, one that entered the brain directly, through the spinning mirrors and measured, shuttered light, which bent and warped via the array of lenses. Peripheral sight was the causeway around picture, flicking the optic nerve to erection.

  He had tried it on himself repeatedly, and felt the shadows infiltrate and pulse. They sought absorption in some part of the brain, and while they danced so, the uncanny was released. Every time he tilted the sunlight or lit the lamps or changed the lenses, he came a little closer; every time he put his head in the machine and cranked the brass gears, he felt the movement try to coalesce; every time his eyes were licked by crooked light, he felt the ghosts arrive.

  After his first seizure, alone in the back of their small studio, he was more cautious. He had come out of the machine with a jolt, his legs going in and out of spasm. He remembered nothing, but when he awoke he was on the floor, with a split lip, a bleeding nose and a torn shirt. He must have looked the way those villains had described him in courtrooms, all those years ago: dislocated, unwell and raving. He had always felt sure that it was not the morbus comitialis that had ravaged him, but some other, sensitive, higher function of the brain that portrayed a similar effect. And now he had proved it, by finding a way to manufacture it from light.

  When he had found his way out of the studio and into the kitchen, he must have been quite a sight; Josephine made a silent scream upon seeing him. His long, greying beard and white shirt were covered in blood, spread everywhere by his excessive perspiration. He tried to reassure her that he was all right, just a small accident. He poured water into the sink to wash, and she went back to her room and locked the door. Locked doors were good things, he thought, as he rinsed his chest. When not in the wilderness, he preferred to live and work behind them, constructing his instruments and carrying out his experiments behind their infallible security.

  He resolved to be more careful in the future; he did not want Josephine to be alarmed again. He could not risk her inquisitiveness drawing her fingers to the workings of his delicate optics. The process of logging each variation of light, each arrangement of lens and shutter, and all the effects they subsequently produced in him, was a protracted and systematic one. The large, heavy ledger sat in the desk in the corner of the room, a sturdy clasp keeping it shut. Soon, he would visit Gull with his findings, and he was looking forward to seeing the doctor’s expression when confronted with such significant research.

  But he was not ready yet. America and Stanford were calling. His two years in England had flown by, and he still needed more time, but that was not an option – he had to return to his adopted homeland as soon as possible. He was musing on this when Josephine knocked on the door. He unlocked it and invited her in. She walked to the chair in front of the camera, touched it and looked at him. He checked his watch.

  ‘Yes. I do have time for a short sitting this afternoon.’

  She actually seemed to enjoy these displays of malady. Even the cruellest of contortions only ever left her tired, and she was always ready for more. He admired this in her. She showed no fear or remorse, never complained or even tried to find a way to; she was so different to the scheming, selfish oaf he had married. He enjoyed her silent company, and felt dismal at having to leave so soon with no return date set. He sighed and began to prepare for the exposure, clearing a few things from his workbench and putting them on shelves. He moved his version of the peripherscope from the back of the shelf to make room for a box of negatives. He felt her start behind him and turned to see her reaction.

  ‘What’s wrong, Josephine?’

  She pointed to his hand.

  ‘What, this?’ he said, holding the clockwork halo of glass and metal towards her.

  Her eyes widened and she produced an expression she had not yet demonstrated, a cross between sexual hunger and shortsightedness, as if she was drawing the object towards her; he felt a little awkward. She approached, holding out her hands. He gave her the halo, and she placed it on her head, imitating the sound of its small clockwork motors while placing her flat right hand over her head and making a series of circles with it. Her actions reminded him of one half of a children’s game, one hand circling in front of the solar plexus, the other above the head, to demonstrate the pull of unity between separate coordination of the left and right brain. But this was not a game: she wanted him to operate it for her.

  He saw no obvious difficulty in her request. Gull had evidently used it in her previous treatment, and its desirable consequences seemed to have given her pleasure. He took the peripherscope from her and wound the motors. Checking that the mirrors were not loose, he arranged it securely on her head. She returned to the chair with sauntering pleasure. The brass and glass shone in the sun from the bright window, against the darkness of her uplifted head. She was a crowned princess, awaiting her cloak of gold on some distant shore; he, her intrepid provider, the carrier of her inner riches.

  They were both smiling when he pressed the tiny levers and set the machine in motion. The effect was instantaneous. Her body tightened and rippled into a firm contour of readiness, as if the nondescript clothing that she wore had somehow become magically tailored to cling to every line of her body. Her posture was cat-like, with a salacious stealth that screamed her sexuality. Muybridge was frozen. She closed her heavy lids over smouldering eyes as wave upon wave of orgasm rushed through her body. Every guard, defence and restraint was swept away from him. His erection was beyond his wildest memories, and it bayed in the constraint of his Scottish woollen trousers. Her sighs turned into mews, then roars. The chair broke, split apart by the energy being driven down through it and into the cringing floor. She stood, fists clenched and head thrown back, panting as the clockwork ran out and the photographer exploded with unbelievable pleasure inside the embarrassed dignity of his thick darkroom underwear.

  They went to their own rooms without a word. He waited until he thought she must be asleep, and then escaped, into an outside world blissfully ignorant of his appalling indiscretion, though he couldn’t help but think that some of the passing mob gave him looks that were all-too-knowing.

  * * *

  Ghertrude and Cyrena had heard rumours about the workforce of the Vorrh. Their p
arents, grandparents and generations of their relatives in all directions had depended on the forest for their living and, eventually, their wealth. They knew that the Limboia were said to be becoming less than human, a condition brought about by prolonged contact with the Vorrh; that only one man could control and manipulate them, and that he was becoming rich and respected by holding the reins of their talent. It was said that his communication with them had made it possible to discover more about the forest and its inhabitants, something that had been forbidden for all known memory. Ghertrude’s father occasionally consulted with one of the city’s most prominent doctors, a known associate of Maclish, the talented Limboia keeper. So they journeyed to the doctor’s house with the great hope of finding Ishmael before all chance had passed.

  They travelled in Cyrena’s lilac Hudson Phaeton. There had been a light rain that morning, and the chauffeur had raised the hood on the noble convertible. They talked excitedly about the cyclops and his possible adventures, watching the city slip past as they glided by at a handsome seven miles per hour. Large numbers of people milled about on the streets, and occasionally little groups would shout or scream out in some boisterous play. They came close to a curb where four young people tussled together in a noisy sport. Their appearance was odd and caught Ghertrude’s attention. As the car drew closer, the two young men grabbed the smaller girl with rather too much force, seeming oafish and common, although their clothing suggested taste and education. They held the young woman by the arms, pinning her forward so she could not turn. The fourth member of their spinning group, a powerful young woman, pointed at her trapped companion, laughing and peeling off her gloves. In the brief glimpse from the passing car, it was suddenly obvious that the younger girl was in terror; the men’s game had become earnest under the gaze of the other woman, who was obviously poised to attack. Ghertrude tugged Cyrena’s attention, and they craned their heads back toward the tableau in time to see the woman grab the other’s face, much in the same way that peasant women squeeze melons to test their ripeness. There was a horrible scream from the girl, who fell to her knees while the others happily fled.

  ‘Stop the car!’ cried Cyrena to her driver. ‘Rupert, go and see what has happened and if we can be of any help!’

  The chauffeur mumbled something and left the purring limousine, walking back towards the crowd of people, who now stood in a circle around the fallen girl. None had gone near or offered assistance. The chauffeur bent down to look at her and then stiffened and stepped back. The girl sobbed, ‘I can’t see, I can’t see!’

  He stared for a moment then looked away, walking back to the car with his eyes fixed firmly on the pavement.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Cyrena, leaning out of her open window. ‘What’s happened? What can we do?’

  The chauffeur spoke quietly without looking at them, his hand already opening the driver’s door. ‘It’s nothing ma’am, just horseplay got a bit out of hand. She’s just a bit ruffled, that all.’

  ‘Ruffled?’ repeated Cyrena incongruously. Her next question was staunched by the chauffeur, who quickly got in and closed his door, releasing the handbrake immediately and pulling away from the carnage. She looked back out of the car’s rear window, but both the crowd and the girl had gone. Bypassers already cut fleeing trajectories through the static where the circle of theatre had been. Rupert must have been right, it had been nothing but her inflamed imagination.

  ‘Go on,’ she said with a twitch of her dismissive hand.

  The car gathered speed, yet something nagged at her. The incident had curdled her day and left her with an ill-determined ache of responsibility. Ghertrude tried to lighten her friend’s obvious anxiety by changing the subject and pointing outside to more delightful features of their journey. Cyrena nodded, but her unconscious remained continuously aware of the small groups of people that sped past the corner of her eye.

  Ten minutes later, they arrived at the doctor’s house. The journey had frustrated Cyrena: her taciturn chauffeur still refused to meet her gaze; she wished she had learned to drive herself.

  They were immediately shown through the spacious house to the doctor’s consulting rooms, where he waited to greet them with warm handshakes and a beaming smile. They sat and drank tea, passing pleasantries until Cyrena decided to broach their need.

  ‘Dr. Hoffman, one hears that you are a good friend of the keeper of the Limboia.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress Lohr, that is true. We have worked together to oversee and tend to the workers’ health.’

  ‘Please, call me Cyrena, everybody does and my family have known yours for a good many years now,’ she said, casually adjusting her beauty for the old man’s appreciation.

  He smiled and said, ‘Cyrena! Why do you ask about Maclish?’

  ‘It is a delicate matter of great importance to me; to us,’ she said, looking at Ghertrude. ‘A dear friend of ours has gone into the Vorrh and we fear for his safety and wellbeing.’

  The doctor nodded, presenting his professional face of concern for their benefit.

  ‘It is said that you and the keeper should be consulted in all practical matters relating to the forest, that your knowledge and experience would prove invaluable.’

  The old man received the compliment with relish, giving a side-slanted nod of gratitude, which also formally agreed with her assumption. ‘How can I help?’ he said.

  ‘We want to go in and fetch him out.’

  Hoffman’s features shifted into stern father mode. ‘My dear, I am afraid that would be quite impossible. It is no place for a woman, especially one of your sensibilities and background.’

  As soon as he said it, he realised he had accidentally excluded Ghertrude from the same description. He half-turned towards her, making a feeble scooping motion with his hand to suggest inclusion. Ghertrude frowned.

  ‘You may know that I am a woman of some wealth and that Mistress Tulp’s family have great influence among the various guilds. I say this merely to emphasise the fact that both of us have a certitude of purpose and the means to make it happen, and that our backgrounds have given us confidence and aptitude quite beyond the average woman.’

  Ghertrude was struck by Cyrena’s eloquence and strength, and was again certain that they had met many years ago. The taste of that time leant on another hinge, which opened on the memory of this doctor attending her when she was fevered. She had disliked him the moment she had entered this room: now she knew why, and she watched him more carefully.

  Hoffman rolled small, soundless words around his mouth until, finally, they fell out. ‘I, I was only anxious for your safety, Mistress Lohr. There are real and extremely dangerous hazards in the forest, that I hope you…’ – he turned belatedly towards Ghertrude – ‘…both would never have to face. For example, there is the dissipation of the memory brought about by the exposure to the forest’s noxious atmosphere. I have made some experiments in this matter, and it is my firm belief that the intake of air damages the brain, even after a few days. It would be very unwise to subject such sensitive constitutions to these harmful effects.’ He was gaining speed, hoping to impress them with his wisdom. ‘Imagine the effect of an enduring time in there, what perilous and irreversible injury your health would suffer. Mistress Lohr, you have already had a major traumatic incident this year. What you are suggesting is out of the question.’

  ‘Dr. Hoffman, we do appreciate your concern, but you must understand that your descriptions only make me more determined,’ said Cyrena, her eyes glowing a steady resistance. ‘Everything about that accursed place makes me fear for my friend even more, and my own recent incident is nothing compared to the horrors you have just described. I must find him and return him to safety, and I will do so with or without your assistance.’

  The mood in the room had swivelled. Hoffman was irritated by Cyrena’s implacable confidence, and she, in return, did not care for his attitude; the patronising tang of defeat was repellent to her. After a long, wooden silence, the doctor cleared his th
roat and started again. ‘The problem is…’ he started.

  ‘The problem is the problem,’ she butted in. ‘But very well,’ she continued, sensing a loss of ground. ‘If we can’t go, maybe we can pay for someone else to search for him in our place? The Limboia, perhaps?’

  The doctor sniggered and tried to hide it with a cough. ‘My dear, the Limboia cannot find themselves, let alone anybody else; they are a vague, undisciplined mob, who can only be made to work in tight units, doing simple tasks. They cannot be let free in the Vorrh: they would never come back!’ He chortled at such a ridiculous prospect.

  ‘Then what about the Orm?’ said Ghertrude.

  Since the return of her youthful memory, her eyes had not once left the doctor’s face. She had seen his dismissal, noted his disinterest in Cyrena’s pain and all they had spoken of. Now, the smugness disappeared. His face shook, as if it had been hit by a gravedigger’s frozen spade. Gone was the arrogance and the guile, the oily charm and condescending grandeur. In its place stood a small, washed-out man with nothing to say, only fear and anger flickering in the saggy folds of his dazed expression.