by B Catling
The wounded man tried to speak, but his throat was closed with dust. At the pause, Williams turned. Seeing the man’s struggle, he poured water into the cup and offered it up to his broken lips. Tsungali drank and dissolved the webs on his voice. ‘Why did you let me live?’ he rasped.
‘I would have blown your head off, but he stopped me,’ Williams said, gesturing towards the cyclops.
‘What is he?’ Tsungali asked weakly.
‘Ishmael? He is something from the old world, something that never really existed. He is unique.’
He took the cup and refilled it, drank some and then handed it back, turning again to stare into Tsungali’s face.
‘Now, about your words earlier.’ His tone tightened to a blade. ‘What did you call me?’
‘I called you Oneofthewilliams. You knew me when I was a young man; the rifle was yours.’ He pointed to the pathetic carcass of the snapped Uculipsa. ‘You were chosen to survive by the holy Irrinipeste, daughter of the Erstwhile, and I believe you have been changed by her forever.’
He finished speaking and slumped a little, fear and fatigue mining his strength.
Williams was very still; he looked perplexed.
‘If this is true, why would you try so hard to kill me?’
‘I did not know it was you until it was too late. I was working for your old masters; they thought you long dead. Then it was said that you were returning through the coastal lands. They wanted you gone, not coming back. Walking freely through desertion after all this time and relighting old fires.’
Williams could not make images for the words, but the depth of his understanding knew them to be true.
‘Do you intend to continue your quest?’
Tsungali shook his head wearily.
Williams got up and slowly walked over to Ishmael, who had been woken by their conversation. His hearing, which had been hiding in a constantly ringing place ever since the pistol fired next to his head, had almost returned.
‘I don’t know which of the three of us is the biggest freak,’ Williams said, retrieving his bow and quiver. ‘I will be back in an hour. Don’t worry about him. He is going nowhere.’
He walked out of the camp, a trio of eyes fixed on his disappearing form.
Long, indecisive minutes passed. Eventually, Ishmael called a greeting to the wounded man.
‘I am coming to speak with you, do not be alarmed!’
The black man waved feebly at him to signal understanding and agreement.
The cyclops sat at his side, so that his face would not shock and he would be able to watch the other man’s moves. He had no fear of the wounded man – he had been the cause of his downfall and the preserver of his life. He had purchased him, between life and death, and now the power was all his, unfamiliar and thriving, from a source unknown to him but nonetheless evident: he owned this man. He had stared down the track with Este in his hands, and this man had slipped and faltered. There had been a reaction between the bow and his eye that saved their lives. Now, something told him to spare or rather save this man’s life; there was a purpose in it.
‘Why do you pursue me?’ he asked quietly.
‘I was not hunting you; I sought only the Bowman.’
‘But you would have killed me, if I hadn’t stopped you?’
Tsungali glanced tentatively at his interrogator’s profile and gave a small nod.
‘So you do know that I stopped you?’
Tsungali nodded again and began to tremble.
‘Do you also know that I saved your worthless life?’
Again he nodded, tears forming and a great weight growing over his heart.
The cyclops lowered his face and looked into his subordinate’s eyes; a great passion rose in him and swelled up, out of his chest.
‘You are mine!’ he boomed. His voice was commanding and alien to him, bred out of certainty and spite; the hunter shrivelled under its command, triggering some other instinct in Ishmael; he softened his tone a fraction. ‘What will you do for me?’ he asked.
Tsungali directed a nod across the camp, indicating the pile of confiscated possessions; he seemed to have lost his power of speech. Ishmael stood and crossed the space to the small heap. He lifted each item, one at a time, until Tsungali signalled that he had reached the right one. In his hands was a bulky, brown leather belt, strung with pouches and bulging pockets. He inspected it suspiciously before returning to the prone man. Holding it up for a moment, he looked down into the man’s soul, then dropped it callously across his body. The buckle caught the end of his stump, and Tsungali jounced into spasm. Ishmael watched silently, waiting for the writhing to subside as some developing part of him sipped at the agony.
Eventually, once the throb in his shoulder had returned to an almost bearable rhythm, Tsungali fumbled into the pouches with his only hand. He pulled out a small, unseen item and held it in his loosely bunched fist. Ishmael watched for signs of betrayal, but knew there would be none. The shaking hand slowly opened, palm up, cupping the small grass ball. From inside its woven cage, the eye stared out, focusing intently on its new owner.
Williams shot the arrow vertically, up through the green shadows and into the bright sky; he did it to consult her in a way that sought no direction, at least not in the physical realm. She had changed, and his memory of her had shifted; they were no longer one body. There was no pain in the separation; it was as if they had simply worn out an invisible circulation in which they had once shared everything. The pounding veins and singing capillaries that had held every reflection and nuance of their world had disappeared; the flow between them that had made one soul of their minds and bodies had ceased, somewhere in the Vorrh. Now, not even the recollection of their transfusion existed. They were two things: a man and a bow.
He could never return to all that he had forgotten, and he understood the road ahead must be walked alone. He walked back into camp, undone and clear, smelling the new breeze in his tight, half-sobbing lungs.
‘He is called Tsungali, he will be my servant from now on,’ said Ishmael to the frowning Williams, who, though amazed at the turn of events in his absence, was equally intent on his own change of course.
‘I know who he is. You are welcome to him.’ If Ishmael noticed the distance in his friend’s tone, he didn’t show it.
‘He knows a medicine man who can change my face; he has agreed to take us to him.’
Williams grunted impassively and started to gather his pack.
‘What are you doing?’ said Ishmael.
‘I have other things to do. Your leg is better and you have a slave to look after you now.’ At the word ‘slave’, everybody flinched, including its speaker.
‘Where will you go?’
Williams paused for a moment, his emotions playing wearily over his face.
‘Out of this godforsaken forest.’
They fell silent and still, each considering their position in the new pattern of things.
‘Maybe straight through and out the other side,’ said Williams finally, breaking the spell.
‘If you travel on, it will take your memory,’ said Tsungali, in his first unsolicited utterance.
‘What memory?’ shrugged Williams. ‘You know more about me than I do myself.’ He turned away from the questions and stooped to retrieve a blanket, dropping it near his growing bundle of belongings.
The rest of the day passed without much conversation. As the evening drew in, Williams gathered his possessions and moved them to another place in the forest. Ishmael assumed he would leave at dawn, and put together a simple meal, as he had seen others do. He lit the campfire, boiled water and waited. He and Tsungali were hungry and picked at the food. The bow rested against a nearby tree, its quiver hanging in the low branches: Williams could not be far away. But by nightfall, the cyclops’ comfort was replaced with anxiety, his appetite slipping away as the truth wormed its way into his stomach: the Englishman had gone. The bow was left in the flickering tree and its creator had
departed, wordlessly, into the enveloping night.
* * *
The bells of the cathedral were wallowing the city in their depth and counterpoint when Cyrena read of the disappearance of Maclish and Hoffman.
Pacing the room in time with the bells, she tried to hold back a smile, knowing it was all connected in some way to their search for Ishmael. She felt responsible and elated in the same moment. She cared nothing for those men, but the consequences of these portent happenings had a weight that unbalanced her equilibrium, causing a flutter in her ribs and setting her imagination racing. The game was underway. A huge obstacle had been eradicated; her embarrassment had been erased with their departure. She rang for Myra and asked her servant to tell the chauffeur to bring the car as quickly as possible. She was going to see Mistress Tulp.
Fifteen minutes later, they were purring through the streets, the cathedral bells still ringing as she passed beneath the twin spires. She craned her neck to see the silver bridge and laughed aloud. The chauffeur gave her a glance in the mirror and she brought her smile under control. It would not do to be so obviously happy at the rogues’ misfortune. But in truth, it was not their disappearance but her reunion with a part of her self that had left her so elated, a part that had been imprisoned by their actions and attitude; she had almost forgotten that it was locked away until it had flown out of the rustling pages of the discarded newspaper.
By the time they reached 4 Kühler Brunnen, she had composed herself. She rapped sharply on the gate and heard shuffling on the other side. She rapped again. Not even the miserable servant would dampen her current enthusiasm.
Mutter opened the gate a few inches and peered at her.
‘Well, open up man, for goodness’ sake, let me in!’
Mutter reluctantly pulled back the heavy gate and stood aside.
‘That’s more like it,’ she said, beaming down at the wide man as he seemed to chew on a sticky and knotted word. ‘Now, go and tell your mistress that I am here,’ she commanded.
He made a strange gesture, his eyes seeming to roll around in his head, as if he were trying to observe the entire courtyard via his peripheral vision.
‘Please wait inside, madam,’ he said in a flush of unsurpassed politeness.
She was taken aback at such a remarkable change of attitude and let herself be swiftly escorted across the cobbled yard, away from the stables and into the house. He left her in the reception room and went to find Ghertrude. She was delighted that Mutter had responded to her firm but polite commands so well: there was hope for the man yet.
Several minutes later, the door opened soundlessly and Ghertrude curved into the pale room. She had changed. Cyrena’s first thoughts were that she looked older since their last meeting, larger somehow, but that was impossible. Yet her complexion, it seemed, was also different to what she remembered. Cyrena’s new eyes were still hungry for detail, even if the rest of her mind found them rather too unrelenting.
‘My dear, how are you?’ she said, pushing aside her doubts to greet her friend with the great warmth and pleasure she nonetheless felt.
‘Very well, thank you Cyrena, how are you?’ Ghertrude replied, her few words exposing so much – it was obvious that she was anything but well. The speed with which she had politely changed the direction of attention was overly polite and Cyrena began to suspect that her presence was less than welcome. She quickly crossed the room and made a soft extension to grasp her friend’s hand. She saw the flinch; it was involuntary and momentary, but it was there. She held it anyway, shuddering at its coldness.
‘My dear, you are freezing!’
She instantly brought the warmth of her other hand to cup the cold paw. Ghertrude looked away. Cyrena’s concern grew; the inbuilt determination that so marked Ghertrude’s character was nowhere to be found: whatever had happened, it was serious.
‘What’s wrong, Ghertrude?’ she asked in a caring, solid tone.
She felt the movement again, trapped beneath the warmth of her grip. This time, it was not a flinch but a tiny tug of escape.
‘Ghertrude? Tell me. You know you can trust me.’
Ghertrude wrenched her hand free and looked at Cyrena with an expression that neither recognised.
‘Don’t treat me like a child!’
Cyrena felt the words slap against her face and looked on, speechless.
‘We are in serious trouble and you pretend nothing has happened?! You breeze in here as if all these horrors never occurred. You are laughing and I cannot even smile!’ Ghertrude was fighting back the tears, her shaking fists beginning to bunch. ‘I cannot sleep; I keep seeing those men and that horrible monster. Ishmael is lost and we will be dragged into the very depths of this dreadful crime!’
The younger woman was instantly overcome by a great gushing of previously contained emotion. She erupted in sobs and shudders, collapsing her stance and her speech into uncontrollable, wet convulsions. Cyrena guided Ghertrude to the sofa as she gave in to the tumult and wept until there was nothing left inside. Little sniffs punctuated the growing weight of her body as she fell into an exhausted sleep in her friend’s arms.
Cyrena was very still, cautious not to move and wake Ghertrude from the depth of such vital rest; she had been turned inside out by the strenuous action, but sleep would reform her in its flat, calm wake. They were both soaked from her tears; Cyrena’s blouse clung coldly against her bosom, where Ghertrude rested.
From her fixed position, she looked around the room, letting her mind recall their adventures together. Why had Ghertrude said ‘crimes’? Nothing they had done could be called a crime; their involvement with those dubious men may have been a secret, but it was not illegal: she had paid for their services, which had proved to be less than useless. She moved slightly, to shift her weight; the sleeper gave a quiet moan. Cyrena stroked her friend’s head and settled her weight again. She continued her casual inspection of the room, trying to alleviate the growing discomfort and take her mind off the pins and needles developing in her feet.
Sometimes, she thought her inquisitive eyes had a life of their own; they constantly flitted and settled on things to embrace their shape and meaning. They looked into the tangled garden of the Persian carpet, imagining all kinds of Arabesque creatures hiding within. They stroked the curved legs of a dark mahogany chair and rolled smoothly over its satin cushion. They took in the squat shadow that crouched behind the chair, swept over to the bright brass of the fireguard, then flicked quickly back to the shadow to look more deeply.
There must have been a shock of recognition, because something awoke Ghertrude. She flinched and pulled herself up, realising her embarrassing position. Still confused and wiping drool from her face, she noticed thin traces of it on Cyrena’s blouse. ‘Oh, oh, I am so sorry!’ she spluttered. ‘Please, forgive me, this is dreadful.’
She arose quickly and staggered back, still unbalanced from her folded sleep and the sticky webs of its unformed images. Cyrena was on her feet and ready for her fall, her hands outspread. Ghertrude righted herself and looked at her friend, clasping both Cyrena’s hands in her own. She had returned, secure in her old self.
‘You must think me such a fool, how can I ever apologise? I am so sorry, I have not slept for three nights and my nerves are worn ragged.’ She again noticed Cyrena’s crumpled, wet blouse and her own dampness. ‘Please, forgive me. You have been such a dear friend and I have treated you terribly. I will get something warm for you to wear and light a fire; it is cold in here, we hardly ever use this room.’ She fussed, dithered and twirled, making her way to the door. ‘I will be back in one moment,’ she said, ‘please, make yourself comfortable, we will light a fire.’
And then she was gone. Cyrena waited for silence, then swiftly crossed the room, searching out the Gladstone bag which skulked behind the chair.
Several minutes later, Ghertrude returned carrying a dressing gown and a tray with a flask of warm milk laced with rum. Mutter followed, holding kindling and logs. Cyre
na had returned to her seat, but her colour had changed; she was pallid, and her smile was drawn over clenched teeth. The preoccupied hostess failed to notice the change in her friend; she was too busy lighting the fire and laying out the drinks. Ghertrude offered the dressing gown for her damp friend to step into, holding it out with a smile and a flourish, like a suddenly joyful matador. Cyrena donned the gown and they sat together with their warming drinks in front of the blazing fire. Mutter left the room without a word, but with a significant glance at Ghertrude, which they both assumed Cyrena was oblivious to.
‘Cyrena, please forgive my appalling behaviour. I am very tired and under the weather.’
‘I should have told you I was going to visit, I think I took you by surprise,’ said Cyrena, sipping her drink.
‘No, no, you are always welcome. Now tell me about what you have been doing.’
Cyrena was not prepared to change the subject, but patronised her friend for a moment.
‘Oh, this and that, attempting to find another purpose in my life.’
Ghertrude raised a quizzical eyebrow and cocked her head.
‘Did you hear about Hoffman?’ Cyrena probed.
‘Oh! Yes, he disappeared, didn’t he?’
‘Off the face of the earth.’
Ghertrude changed the subject immediately, though only as far as Hoffman’s unfortunate accomplice. ‘And what about the other one? Maclish!’
‘Yes, he too, apparently.’
They put their drinks down simultaneously, as if to mark the end of a difficult conversation.
‘I feel I must apologise again,’ said Ghertrude.
‘You mean for not trusting me?’ said Cyrena, closing in.
‘Well, no, I meant…’
‘I know what you meant. And I know what’s disturbing you,’ interrupted the older woman.
‘I am just unwell,’ Ghertrude stammered.
‘Don’t lie to me! I deserve more than this,’ replied Cyrena, her voice rising and changing pitch. ‘I truly am your friend; now tell me the truth!’