The Vorrh

by Brian Catling

  “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 throat 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 were the arrogance and the guile, the oily charm and condescending grandeur. In their place stood a small, washed-out man with nothing to say, only fear and anger flickering in the saggy folds of his dazed expression.

  “The what?” he said in a voice that was barely audible.

  “The Orm,” said Ghertrude, her dagger gaze missing none of the telltale signs that were filling the room.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he obviously lied.

  Cyrena, whose attention had been momentarily caught by the Gladstone bag that dominated the table before her, suddenly realised that the swivel was shifting again and returned her focus to the exchange.

  “The thing that lives with the Limboia, that you have use of.”

  He was completely speechless. How dare this ninny of a girl stroll into his home, claiming to know of the Orm? What if her father found out?

  “I’m not sure what you think you know…,” he began, sitting back and forcing a chuckle.

  “What I know is not important here. It’s what you know that will help us in this matter.”

  Cyrena sensed the needs of the conversation and joined in to construct a pincer movement. “As I have said before, Doctor, this is a delicate matter that I intend to have resolved, at any cost.” She watched Hoffman absorb the threat and continued, coating it in the honey of temptation. “I will pay dearly for this to happen, and if you and your ‘Orm’ are part of it, then we shall all profit from finding him.”

  The doctor shifted his position on the chair, avoiding Ghertrude’s attentive direction. “I will have to talk to Maclish,” he said tentatively. “I don’t know if it’s possible, but…I will try to help you find your friend.”

  Cyrena instantly brightened at the subtle triumph. They were getting closer to Ishmael. She felt an immediate desire to plan and anticipate for his return.

  “Excellent! However, there is one other detail of great importance,” she said, smiling graciously at Hoffman. She glanced at Ghertrude, then tipped into the doctor’s confidence, warning him back into the excitement. “Our friend is severely deformed.”

  She explained Ishmael’s very particular problem, almost forgetting that she had never seen it. But it was better this way; she made it sound brave and heroic. Ghertrude said nothing; she did not trust this man with any detail and was nervous about involving him in such intimacies.

  “The whole thing must remain entirely private, you understand,” said Cyrena.

  “I am sure we are all more than capable of keeping a secret,” the doctor replied, his eyebrows raised.

  The agreement was made that he would talk to Maclish about setting the Orm loose in the forest to find their wandering friend. A certain sum of money would be paid up front, and the rest exchanged when Ishmael was brought to them. They stood to leave, on fairly good terms, shaking hands in the doorway and agreeing to speak again in a few days. Then, while Ghertrude’s hand was still in his, and Cyrena had turned towards the street, Hoffman looked down at Ghertrude’s waist and quietly said, “I am here to help you with the other problem, if you so want.”

  He slowly patted the back of her hand, then uncoiled his fingers and let go of her frozen form, grinning inside his mouth as he gently closed the door.

  Ghertrude had been spending less and less time at 4 Kühler Brunnen. She found it lonely and unexciting without Ishmael. She had stopped expecting the promised letter from the invisible master of the house. It had said she would be contacted again in a year, but almost two had passed and no communication of any kind had been received. She did not know whether she was being scolded or ignored; either way it made her feel powerless. So she retreated to her old rooms in her family home; her parents paid no attention to her comings and goings, being far too occupied with the business of the city, and she increasingly felt as though she had become entirely invisible. Even Mutter looked through her most of the time; only Cyrena seemed to enjoy her company and her mind.

  Today, though, she was back at the old house, pottering blindly about on a rainy morning, waiting for her friend to arrive. The message had come through: The cyclops had been found and taken
to the old slave house.

  “What a terrible place to take the poor man,” said Cyrena to Ghertrude when she came to collect her with her car. Mutter had opened the gate, showing even fewer manners than last time, guiding her through to the reception room with a grunt and slouch.

  “Why do you keep that ghastly man on?” she said, as he sloped away.

  “He has his uses,” said Ghertrude, who seemed distracted and focused elsewhere. “It was he who told me of the Orm,” she said absently.

  “How did he know of such a thing?” asked Cyrena, bemused.

  “The lower people are closer to the ground; they exchange stories about it. They are always talking about base actions or ghosts as things without speculation. They don’t have the space for philosophy. They work in the pinching enclosure of fact. So odd details and stories become important, like ideas do with us. It’s never been the educated classes that tell stories, carry legend, or invent mythologies.”

  “Oh?” said Cyrena, surprised and not quite understanding why the girl cared or understood. “But what about the Greeks?” she asked, pulling a wisp of forgotten education to the aid of her feigned interest.

  “Exactly the same. The Titans started as no more than tribesmen covered in white mud, circling their huts, shouting stories under bull-roarers, to keep the women and children inside.”

  “Mm,” said Cyrena.

  “I’ll tell you another thing: Mutter distrusts Dr. Hoffman more than I do, something to do with his son, I think.”

  Cyrena had lost focus entirely and was fidgeting to leave. The moment had come: She could finally thank Ishmael and begin their friendship together. At the gate, Cyrena looked at Mutter again; he was watching the purring limousine outside and ignored her interest. Ghertrude turned to him as they were about to leave, a look of pleasant companionship on her face. “We are bringing Ishmael home today,” she said inclusively.

  She turned to get into the car, missing his expression, which suddenly turned ugly. Cyrena knew that her friend was utterly wrong to have any belief in this insolent oaf, and she resolved to monitor his future involvement more carefully.

  In the car, she found Ghertrude’s distance annoying. She was there to share this moment, not ignore it. She asked, “Do you think he will be all right? Do you think his memory will be affected? He’s been in there a long time. He might not even remember me. How will I tell him all, explain everything?”

  Ghertrude had a genuine affection for her new friend and greatly admired her vivacious energy, but now she was sounding like a piping adolescent, fantasising over someone she had never met. She tried not to say it, but perversity was such a willing adviser. “He can be very difficult, you know; he is not like us, not at all.”

  Cyrena stopped talking, waiting to hear more, but that was all her friend said, and it sounded like a warning. They drove the last few miles to the slave house in silence.

  —

  “He was bloody difficult to bring in. Are ye sure ye know this thing?” Maclish’s charm had been left with all the empty bottles a long time ago, and the women flinched at his abrupt and coarse manner. The doctor interceded, literally stepping between them, grinning and blocking his partner’s impertinence.

  “What William means is that your friend did not want to leave the Vorrh. He struggled a great deal and we had to use much force to get him here.”

  “You did not hurt him?” flared Cyrena.

  “No, mistress, he is safe and sound, as far as I can make out,” said Hoffman.

  Cyrena did not understand what he meant but felt reassured.

  “He scared my men,” joined in Maclish. “Ye said he was deformed, but none of us were prepared for this!” He banged his hand on the metal door of the holding cell. A shuffling sound came from within. “We hope your presence will calm him down. I’m sure when he sees ye and hears your voice he will settle.”

  Cyrena was already pawing at the door in expectation; Ghertrude held back uncertainly.

  “It’s dark in there,” growled Maclish.

  “Yes, he likes it like that,” said the doctor, watching Ghertrude’s eyes. Maclish pulled the keys from his belt, put one in the lock, and turned it. In his other hand he held a stock whip. The door creaked on its weight, and a huddled movement rippled under the straw and rags in the dark far side of the cell. They all came in and stood together. Cyrena hesitated, then walked forward.

  “Ishmael?” she said quietly, and an attention was sensed in the far side of the room. “Ishmael, we have come to take you home. Ghertrude is here with me.”

  There was a distinct movement from under the straw, and everybody strained their eyes to make out the crouching figure. Maclish changed the whip from one hand to the other.

  “Ishmael, we have missed you; you will be safe with us when we return home,” said Ghertrude, his proximity oiling the mechanisms of her voice.

  “Yes, we can leave now. Please come with us,” said Cyrena. “Do you recognise me? I am the Owl. I am the one that you spent a night with during the carnival.”

  Maclish curled his lip, and he and the doctor exchanged an astonished glance. The figure moved out of the shadows towards them.

  “Yes, that’s it; come to us,” said Cyrena and turned to Ghertrude, beaming and shaking. “He knows me!”

  Smiling with tears in her eyes, she turned back as the figure moved forward into the ray of light, which came in through the barred windows and divided the room. He looked up at them, and both women started to scream.

  —

  Ghertrude was holding Cyrena, one arm around her sobbing shoulders. She was glaring at Hoffman and holding back her own tears, which were slowly distilling from shock to rage. Maclish had dragged them out of the cell and into the small office, where they now sat.

  “What’s wrong with ye?” he snarled. “We got your cyclops, and now ye scream at it?!”

  “That thing is not Ishmael,” said Ghertrude, gritting her teeth and pushing away from her distressed friend, standing to match Maclish’s aggression.

  The doctor moved towards her and, in a puzzled voice, said, “Not Ishmael?”

  “But ye said ye slept with it,” said Maclish, pointing at Cyrena.

  She looked up and out of her tears. “Slept with that?” she said, each word turning from disbelief into anger, so that the questioned inflection at the end of “that” sounded like a blacksmith’s hammer striking a flame from a frozen anvil. She was on her feet: Her eyes had become terrible. Every part of her previous pain and her immediate disappointment was hurtling in a tornado of fury. She was ready to fight, and her stance—her eyes, teeth, and nails—was sprung for the next word; even Maclish took a step back. Ghertrude had never seen a human being like this, let alone a close friend.

  The doctor shrank. Maclish recognised the sudden animal; he had seen it in the war. It had been rare and lethal, and he held it in respect.

  “I am sorry, miss,” he said in clear, cold words, lowering his arms to his sides. She panted for a few moments, and her humanity and her colour flooded back. Ghertrude moved to her side and guided her towards the door.

  After they left, the shaken doctor sat on one of the creaking chairs and mopped the perspiration from his forehead with a large handkerchief. Maclish came back in. “She said we can keep the money, but we aren’t getting any more.”

  The doctor just nodded and said, “What are we going to do with that thing?”

  “Take it back or kill it. Nobody wants Loverboy here,” said Maclish, guffawing at his own joke.

  Dr. Hoffman saw nothing to be amused about.

  Loverboy stood naked, four feet high, in the straw at the back of the cell. His skin was deathly pale, with a yellowish tinge. He had long, thin limbs, and his torso was squat and square. His head grew out from his chest, so that his forehead sloped into his shoulders, putting his tiny mouth level to where human nipples should be. His single eye was level with his armpits, and it blinked, sphincter-like, in the gloom. He did not think much
of humans; their only value was in terms of food. He had eaten one two years ago, and their sweet flesh was greatly prized among his people. But they were dangerous to hunt, and many of his tribe had died in the process.

  He knew he was the first of his kind to be taken bodily out of the forest, and he did not understand how it had happened. Unseen from the dense undergrowth, they had watched the humans devouring the forest year after year; nothing had ever entered and dragged one of his kind out before. He feared what he had seen so far and did not understand the cave they kept him in. He did not understand the actions of these tall, ugly creatures; they seemed to use all their emotions at once. He hated the one with red fur: It was known to be cleverer and faster than the herd that it kept for work and food. The screaming ones intrigued him; females, he thought, with hideous, extended heads. He became erect thinking about them, and it surprised him. He would have liked to undress one and play with it before he cooked and ate it. But that was for another time. Now he must escape and get back into the Vorrh.

  The two women travelled home together in silence. Cyrena dropped Ghertrude off at 4 Kühler Brunnen, and the pair quietly said goodbye as Ghertrude was admitted by a gleeful Mutter.

  In the back of the lilac car, Cyrena’s tide ebbed between wrath and frustration, after the shock of seeing that abomination step into the light and look directly at her. She doubted all her memories, and the strands of tensile fibres that normally made her invincible unwound and came apart for a fraction of a second. In that blink of time, she mistrusted all of her presight experience: What if that disgusting creature actually was the person she had slept with in the carnival night? What if it had been his gropings, suckings, and penetrations that she had accepted with pleasure and gratitude? What if, worst of all, it had been that thing that had healed her before creeping off into the night?

  Yet again, sight had trampled everything else, and she had been lessened by it. Doubt nicked the circulation of her energy and bled her internally, so that now she did not understand why she had been so enthusiastic about seeing Ishmael again. Why had that become the centre of her life? How had she managed to expose her hunger and show her will to these foolish men? What was really in it for her? Had Ghertrude not warned her? Well, perhaps she had, but it had come too late and too weak.