The Vorrh

by Brian Catling

  “Yes, yes, I will say all, yes!” rattled the mercenary, in a fast, breathless assent.

  “Then tell me about him. What can he do?”

  “He can fix your face, fix like other men; he can put my live eye in, fix it there so two eyes like other men. He can do many things, make a new hand, last time fixed jaw, fix bullet wound. Some say he plays with death so face fixing is easy.” He was panting the words out like a running dog.

  “Why will he do this for me?” asked Ishmael suspiciously.

  “Do because of the bow, do anything for the bow, what bow says,” the hunter gibbered in reply.

  Ishmael sat down on the earth and gripped the bow, turning it in his hands. He questioned his slave for an hour on all matter of things. The trembling man spat out a barrage of answers. Not all of it made sense, but Ishmael built a picture of his servant, of what he knew and how he could be used. When he had heard enough, he stood and pointed forward and the jabbering man led the way.

  —

  The Erstwhile watched the performance peak and fade. They crept close, keeping themselves concealed; gradually, with the slow speed of great wisdom, they saw the bow. The self of it accumulated in them, like a residue of sand forming a mountain, grain upon grain, until it filled the entire landscape. They had not known of its presence in the forest while it had been in the grip of the white man. Now, in the hands of the cyclops, it broadcast its existence loud and far. They turned away and moved at painstakingly slow velocity, as far away as they could. Conventional hiding was not enough; they separated and found their own places to dig, clawing the stubborn earth and roots aside. All now knew that the bow was here, and they made grave-like hiding places, crawling in and pulling piles of earth and leaves over themselves. They lay still in their concealment, waiting for sleep, hoping to escape the ambiguity of dreams, the scent of which was most attractive to higher animals and other, more difficult entities.

  Nebsuel hid his shock at seeing Tsungali on his doorstep. So amazed was he that he scarcely noticed the hunter’s shaded companion, half-concealed by his hood and scarf. He brought them into his crowded workroom, a library of objects, bottled and stacked, shelved and hanging, boiled over, chaotic and alive, a vast collection of fragmented animal, vegetable, and mineral from around the globe. He gestured to them to sit and asked them to tell their tale.

  Tsungali told of his quest and how it had changed. He said something of Oneofthewilliams, but not all. He told of demons and introduced Ishmael, who began to discreetly unwrap his face from within the scarf. “We have come to you for help. I am wounded again and my master needs rectification,” explained Tsungali.

  “Master?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Rectification?” said Nebsuel, like a stranger trying out a word in a foreign tongue.

  “He needs a new face.”

  Nebsuel swung around to view the other man. He looked straight into the cyclops’s face, and a strange gleam engulfed his gaze. Ishmael looked at him warily, uncertain of this unusual response; his doubt did not last for long.

  “Wonderful!” crowed the healer, unable to control himself. “I never thought I would meet one. Do you speak?” he hawked, apparently expecting the response of some cretinous species or another.

  “I do, but not in the crippled tongue of your native land.”

  “By the living gods, he is intelligent!” declared Nebsuel, clapping his hands, a lascivious grin on his beaming face. “Forgive my rudeness, young master; I mean no offence; I am simply staggered by your uniqueness. Please, let me get you both something to eat and drink. Your journey must have been arduous.” He turned quickly, leaving a trace of something moist and hungry in the atmosphere around their bare skin. Ishmael’s hackles rose. He could not understand why, but he did not like this man; he had the bearing and manners of a jackal, one that was wiser and more complex than anyone he had yet met. But he was a gracious jackal, and Ishmael’s stomach urged his trust to be stretched a little further.

  They ate and drank, taking freshwater into their parched throats. Their host opened a bottle of wine all the way from Damascus, where, Nebsuel explained, his forebears had come from. The wise man’s ancestors had travelled to fish the rich shoals of slaves hundreds of years earlier, building networks of communications that ran in all directions and to all lands.

  The exotic things in this room, and the wine itself, still passed through the gradually fading routes.

  “Tell me of your home and background,” he asked of Ishmael.

  “They are unknown to me at this time,” the cyclops replied regretfully. “Completely unknown.”

  “Ah, but you mean to find out?”

  Ishmael eyed him warily. “I do,” he replied, uncertain of how much he could safely reveal.

  “Take care, rare one; origins are mysterious. There are tangles and causes, curves and strangers, which are sometimes best unmet. Stones that should never be turned. Especially in one like you.”

  It sounded like a genuine and sincere warning, and Ishmael began to warm to the shaman: Perhaps he was only a wolf and not a jackal at all? Even so, Ishmael avoided speaking of the Kin or Ghertrude: His instinct kept them well away from the uncertainty of strange men.

  The conversation progressed and they talked about Nebsuel’s work. The old warrior promised Nebsuel he had a prize beyond riches and that the medicine man would find time in its company a magnificent exchange for his skills. There was some laughter about the existence of such a treasure; the wine helped silken the conversation’s flow.

  Tsungali took the eye out with great care, picking bits of grass and dust from its slippery surface and clearing a space on the table to allow closer observation. Nebsuel brought his magnifying glass near and directed a pointed lamp at the treasure.

  “You bring me another wonder,” he marvelled. “Such bounty; such bounty!”

  He became hushed, bending closer to view the impossible again. Here was a new version of the thing he valued most, another demonstration that the world was unfathomable and its resources unlimited, infinitely mysterious and ever changeable. His expertise in anatomy and charm surgery was in a constant state of amazement, but this brought a new pinnacle of surprise: a human eye, active and vital, long after separation from its lifeblood and the protective surroundings of the rest of its body. What nourished it? What let it work so frantically when the optic nerve that operated it had been so definitely severed from the brain? It was like a continually working bucket that had unknowingly lost its well. He turned to Tsungali, enraptured.

  “You know my only two prices are objects of use and objects of fascination.” Tsungali grinned through his gapped teeth. “You have brought me two bounties of knowledge and fascination: My service is yours. What can I do for you?”

  They discussed the hunter’s arm, the wise man prodding thoughtfully at the healing stump, mental calculations whirring through the room. But at the mention of Ishmael’s face, his expression darkened.

  “No,” said Nebsuel definitely. “Such uniqueness is untouchable. Why would you want to look like everybody else?”

  “Because I want to become myself and live my life as a man, not as a monster. I want to be forgotten for who I am, not judged for how I have been made.”

  Nebsuel paused to digest this, then said, “Do you choose to be with those who see you the wrong way?”

  “Who else is there?”

  “I know some.”

  Ishmael tensed at the suggestion. “No, I want to go back changed.” Nebsuel made a clucking, swallowing sound and returned to his beaker of wine, shaking his head. Ishmael and Tsungali sat with him in silence, not looking at each other, eyes focused on their drinks. Too many moments had passed when Tsungali eventually blurted out, “Well? Will you do it? Will you operate on us?”

  No answer came. The healer was hardening. Tsungali looked at Ishmael and nodded. “Show him,” he said, and Ishmael dipped his head in understanding.

  Ishmael pulled the long, thick b
undle from under his feet and started to unwrap it. At first Nebsuel paid no attention; he had assumed the bundle to be the stranger’s bedroll. But as more and more of the blanket was unravelled, he felt something straining in his solar plexus. He knew from old what that meant, but there was no time to register it or protect himself: The cyclops’s possession was disclosed. As the last layer fell away, he began to sweat, his heart drying and fluttering, mites and dust shaken off in the straining, sticky cage of his ribs. He could not believe what he was seeing. The dark maroon of the bow’s surface seemed to ripple and bend under his enforced gaze. Ishmael’s hand was black with effort and excrescence. The eye rolled from its safe perch on the table, gravitating towards the bow and the floor. Everything in the room seemed to be turning and twisting, yearning towards Este in a curiosity that became mangled midway into abeyance. Ishmael dragged the bow down and covered it with the blanket, crudely smothering its influence under the covering. The eye stopped short of the table’s lip; in its passage, it nicked itself on the sharp wire from around the discarded cork of the wine. The room crept back to inertia. Nebsuel sank into his seat as Tsungali grinned at the excellent demonstration. There was an eerie scent in the room: something of the sea and an exotic garden, smouldered together; a flinch of ammonia, at first exhilarating, and then turning to a whiff of dread, like a leeching memory trapped and waiting in a dream.

  “I will do anything,” said Nebsuel, in a voice from a distant, colourless place, “anything you want.”

  The bird activated its bell of arrival and the fine sound sleeted down into the lower room like pointed snow.

  Sidrus was not expecting a communication; there was very little to be told from the river mouth. He continued rubbing the sticky balm into his porous face. The bell rang again, and he wiped the fat from his fingers, so that they would not slip as he retrieved the scroll from the bird’s dry, struggling ankle.

  It was a message that should never have been sent, one laced with mistakenness from the moment Nebsuel had penned it, in a stolen pause that had masqueraded as the friendly replenishment of wine. It told of his visitors before he knew who they were and before he understood what it was that they really wanted. It said, simply:

  Tsungali here with a cyclops. I think they killed Bowman and took his soul.

  Sidrus dropped the note, feeling the consequence hollow him and make room inside for the wrath, which began to boil and brim. The lardish balm melted and dripped from his distorting face without the slightest trace of a flush. As the heat of it settled, he selected his canes and drugs, picking weapons with the detachment of a deadly perfectionist. It would take him three days to reach Nebsuel’s pox-ridden island, maybe another four to extract the right amount of pain from the wicked scum for performing such an act of blasphemy.

  “I cannot make you a perfect, natural face,” Nebsuel explained. “It would seem that your skull has only one socket, so I will have to make a place for the other one. The living eye will be stitched into folds of constructed muscle and skin, but it will have no real nest to work in. It will not rotate; it will remain blind but, I hope, living. Yet, I cannot promise this. Whatever keeps it vital is beyond my understanding, and nothing to do with the rules of regular anatomy.

  “I am anxious about its stability. If it were to die, it would infect the newly grafted tissue around it. But for now it is still animated, and as bright as your other. I pray it will always look like that, alert and active, not like false eyes made of glass or ivory, which always have a dead and lonely appearance. The good news for you is that because your working eye and socket are not quite central, the space between the eyes will seem more natural, if a little close together.” The shaman paused for breath, adding, “Which some find most attractive—many of the European royal families have interbred to create this very effect. They might even recognise you as one of their own!”

  Sensing that he had pirouetted out onto very thin ice, he decided that it was best to retreat to the more solid ground of surgical details.

  “I will build you a nose of normal proportion, to place between the eyes, using the little bulb you have now as a starting point. This will be the easiest part of the procedure. Did you know that surgeons are now treating injured warriors from the great European war with the same methods I have used for years? I am told that they use scrapings taken from diseases and tinctures from rotting moulds to help the healing. My charms and plants are much cleaner, but they take longer. You might look a bit like one of those scarred warriors, a man who has been in a battle and bears the wounds of his heroism with pride. Your face will look like a damaged version of all other humans. Are you sure that you want this, and that I cannot help you find another alternative?”

  Ishmael looked from the bundle, which now stayed very close to him, to the doctor, who followed his gaze and his meaning. The conversation ended there.

  —

  Nebsuel attended to Tsungali first. Building a new, living hand was out of the question, but a wooden one, with a hinged elbow that strapped onto the remains of his upper arm, was feasible.

  The old mercenary seemed disappointed; he had allowed himself to imagine a fully working hand, made of flesh and bone and imbued with magic. Nebsuel explained that if he had kept the fragments and brought them with him, then maybe he could have improvised a kind of weak, articulate hook or claw. But the hardwood version would be better, he assured him. The hunter could have different models, with ivory fingernails and powerful engravings; charms and weapons could be hidden inside. He could have versions of other creatures: Puma paws and boar tusks could sprout from his sleeve, eagle talons and shark teeth might surprise an attacker or a victim.

  The old warrior came around to the idea but explained that the days of his mercenary skills were over. His purpose now was to serve Ishmael and use violence only to protect his master. He made this point very clearly, explaining that while they were both healing, any attempts of outrage on their persons would send him and the bow into a frenzy of revenge, especially if he was dead. Nebsuel reassured him that they were both safe, not realising that his message to Sidrus made his promise impossible to keep.

  The patient slept in a drugged sea of his mother’s milk, his limb wrapped in layers of leaves and ointments, looking more like a papoose than a sling. The new arm was a crude affair but had a certain rustic brutality that Tsungali admired. Considering the short amount of time Nebsuel had taken to hollow and carve it, he considered himself fortunate to have anything more than an old chair leg grafted onto his stump.

  Then it was Ishmael’s turn, and he was jumpy, even after the numbing drafts he had been given.

  “Young master, this is your last chance to change your mind,” offered a blurring Nebsuel. “There is no going back once I begin.”

  Ishmael looked out for the last time through the face of a cyclops, a face that had already begun to disintegrate in the gathering haze. His view of the speaker began to fall away on a long track, shrinking the medicine man, whose own face muffled gibberish at him.

  “Do it. Do it!” he said, and he heard his words float up, cooing to sit on his closing eye like a fat, indifferent bird.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “When is the baby due?” asked Cyrena at last.

  “In August,” said Ghertrude, sheepishly. “At least, that’s when I think it should be, but…it seems to be progressing faster than that.”

  “Carnival?” asked Cyrena.

  “Yes, it was conceived then.”

  “Is it his?”

  “I don’t know; I cannot be sure.”

  “You coupled with more than one?”

  “Yes,” she said, without a quiver of shame. It was too early to be assigned a father. The tiny beast of jelly turned in her soul and tried to speak in drowning verse to anything that might be its parents.

  “Can you find out? There are some medical tests available. Maybe Hoffman?”

  They met each other’s gaze and Cyrena understood that the master of the
skulking Gladstone bag would not be returning to collect it. Its doglike presence behind the chair seemed to awaken for a moment at the sound of its master’s half-said name. Cyrena felt it. “You’d better get rid of that,” she said.

  Ghertrude stiffened, thinking she still referred to the unborn child, then saw that her friend was looking elsewhere. “Get rid of what?”

  Cyrena pointed languidly and Ghertrude followed her wagging finger to the shadow. She cringed when she saw it, letting out a small shudder. It was as if the good doctor’s head had been left under the chair, unnoticed, watching their every action since his removal.

  —

  She told Cyrena everything. The threat to her life; his rage; the broken pearls and Mutter’s revenge.

  “I will protect Sigmund for what he did to save me from that vile animal,” she said with gritted determination. “I will protect him against all.”

  The implication of her words was clear: Cyrena was inside the pact or out of it; there was no middle ground. She would take Mutter’s ground against all comers, including her friend.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Cyrena replied, and she meant it. The new life and old death in the room were being gifted in a one-way transaction; she was already part of them both and wanted to be active in each of this woman’s conclusions. Anyway, the prospect of crossing a raging Mutter was too horrible to contemplate. “I am glad that wretched man is out of our lives,” she said decisively. “It sounds like he got everything he deserved.”

  Ghertrude nodded, nipping anxiously at the edges of her fingernails. Something dawned on Cyrena and she looked at her friend quizzically.

  “What did Mutter do with…the remains?”

  Ghertrude paused, realising that she did not know. They had never spoken fully about that night; she had only thanked him and sworn her silence, a pact she had now broken. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “Don’t tell him you know—don’t tell him I told you!”