She took the arm he offered and they walked slowly back up the road, past the gate, where the bemused Guixpax was waiting and watching.
—
Inside the mansion, they sat like strangers, in chairs that faced each other. His hand returned repeatedly to his face. Neither quite knew what to do next, though their hearts strained palpably towards each other; their passions and unfamiliarity clenched together, forming a barrier of embarrassment between them.
“May I ask to wash?” Ishmael requested politely. “My journeys have been long and arduous.”
“Of course! I should have suggested it immediately!” Cyrena rang the bell and Myra came into the room, subtly observing the injured young man from the corner of her eye. Her mistress ignored the question in her eyes and instructed her to prepare a bath and bring towels, perfumed salts, and a dressing gown. Guixpax was summoned and sent to town to buy suitable clothing.
When alone again, Cyrena listened at the bathroom door and heard him splashing with what she hoped was pleasure.
Dim, bewildered old Guixpax returned with the weirdest selection of clothing she had ever seen. She pawed through the tangled mass on the polished table while the gatekeeper stood behind her, proud of his unique purchases.
“Thank you, Raymond. A fine choice. You can leave it to me now.”
Guixpax left, glowing with achievement but confused by the situation that his mistress appeared to be so enjoying. Cyrena waited for him to depart, then selected a choice of garments and placed them outside the bathroom door.
“Ishmael, there are clean clothes outside the door.”
“Thank you, er…?”
She realised, with some embarrassment, that she had not yet told him her name. “Cyrena,” she replied. “My name is Cyrena.”
“Cyrena,” he repeated, the room of steam and perfume echoing the name.
—
Tsungali’s ghost had followed its master as far as the garden; he had neither the will nor the desire to enter the elaborate and confusing dwelling.
He watched from the dense colour of the unusual foliage. It was a pleasant place, and he passed through the plants and trees with idleness. His master was safe and at peace inside the house, with a woman and servant to look after him; the villain who had threatened Ishmael’s life was nowhere near, so Tsungali let himself be diluted by time, so that no one saw him crouching among the energetic growth and high, containing walls.
—
Ishmael padded softly down the hallway and found her in her favourite room, drinking golden wine from a long-stemmed glass. She did not hear him arrive, so light was his footfall. He was wearing Chinese silk slippers that she had left for him. Very quietly, he said, “Thank you, Cyrena.”
She stood up and looked at him, allowing herself to linger on the details of his presence, basking in his proximity. He was wearing silk pyjamas and the blue dressing gown that she had left him. His hair was still wet. She looked at his face, at how the scars around his eye seemed to gather his features together at that point, giving it a bunched squint. His nose was a little worse for wear; the straight line of it veered a little between loose folds and taut stretchings. Apart from this, it was the normal face of a slender young man who looked as though he had lived a troubled and weather-beaten life. He began to raise his hand again, insecurity blooming under her gaze, but she crossed the room to stop him, reaching out to his hand and holding it in her own. She led him to the window seat and they sat looking at each other for an endless, unruffled time, the evening darkening around them.
“I don’t know where to start,” she said eventually. Handing him her glass, she moved away to fill another, then turned back to him. “It’s been a long time since the carnival, and many things have changed for us both, I am sure, but…perhaps we should begin where we left off before?”
He stared at her for a moment and then smiled, his new eye gleaming almost as brightly as the other. He reached for her hand and together they walked up to her bedroom.
Outside, the swallows were changing to bats, to count the space of the sky with sound instead of sight. Inside, contentment had come to the house of Cyrena Lohr—for all except for the bow, which seethed in its wrappings.
—
Cyrena and Ishmael had not stepped outside the house for almost a week. The world beyond the mansion’s walls had dissolved in its own continuum of noise and bustle. They never left each other, talking and touching and succumbing to their courtship through all the hours of the day and night. Even the division of light and dark held no meaning for them: The richness of their realm was more than all else.
The servants ferried food and drink and kept out of their way. So powerful was their love in the house that it evaporated all gossip and belowstairs speculation. The staff just grinned knowingly and shrugged their shoulders and grinned again.
The bow lay neglected in the hall; Ishmael no longer moved it with him from room to room. Occasionally it would fall in the night, clattering noisily against obscure items and leaving unpleasant odours and resistant stains. Eventually, he placed it as far from the heart of the house as the walls allowed, resting it in the small porch that joined the garden to the cellar. The servants were warned not to disturb it under any circumstances. It was a somewhat unnecessary order: The long black bundle was loathsome to all.
Under a nearby bush, Tsungali’s ghost dozed peacefully. His grandfather had caught up with him a few days after he arrived. He had decided to wait with him for their business to be concluded, so they might travel together into the awaiting worlds. Tsungali slept to conserve the strength of what was left of him. His grandfather kept a wary eye on the bow while he dozed.
The arrival of the letter dislodged the peace of the house. Its sharp white envelope was like a porcelain blade. It was from Ghertrude.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
Have you forsaken me? Please tell me what I have done to cause your silence? I felt such relief at your support in this strange, incomprehensible time; I cannot begin to express my despair at your absence.
I am so alone. Nobody comes. I only ever see Mutter, and I cannot speak to him—his smile unnerves me; it is more than I can tolerate at this moment.
The house has never been so empty. I am racked by nightmares, which I think might be omens; the evil spirit of the doctor comes to steal the life from within me and I wake in terror every night. Please, if I have not offended you in some unknown way, come to me soon. I need your strength and friendship to see me through these desperate times.
YOURS ALWAYS,
GHERTRUDE
Cyrena was mortified. She had not considered Ghertrude’s needs for days, even though she and Ishmael had talked about her frequently with warmth and care; she had to go to her friend at once. She called Ishmael and showed him the letter.
“What is the significance of this doctor?” he asked.
She shut her eyes to the answer that tangled in her throat. There was so much to explain, and so much more to forget.
“He was one of the men we paid to find you. He was a vile man, corrupt and dangerous.”
“Where is he now?”
“He disappeared,” she lied, “ran off somewhere with the other vermin who tricked us.”
Ishmael was content and asked no more questions, letting her rush about as she dressed for the first time in days.
“I don’t know how long I will be,” she said at the door.
“I am coming with you.” He had his shoes on and was buttoning his shirt. “I am coming to see Ghertrude.”
—
The car sped through the city and she gripped his hand tightly, moving back and forth in her seat as if it might help the lilac Phaeton gain speed. Ishmael tried to talk, but it was impossible to engage her, so he sat back, enjoying the speed and the vista of the city without the disguise of a mask or a scarf. He was beginning to feel grand, in his new face and the plush elegance of the car’s interior.
They arrived at 4 Kühler Brunnen minutes lat
er, and she rattled at the gate and the bell. Ishmael stepped into the street and was suddenly overwhelmed; he was transported to a very different place, with a tide of memories flooding back.
When a dishevelled Ghertrude eventually came to the gate, the sight of her friend unhooked her and she immediately began to weep. She yanked the barrier open, throwing herself, sobbing, into Cyrena’s arms. Cyrena held her tightly, patting her back in soft, soothing strokes, heavily aware of their unseen companion but overcome with a maternal sense of responsibility. “I am so, so sorry for deserting you. Please forgive me; it will never happen again.”
Ghertrude pulled back slightly from her friend’s damp shoulder. “I am sorry for crumbling so again; I have just been so lonely and scared.”
“No, my dear, it is I who must apologise; we have been so locked up in conversation that all else faded.”
“We?” Ghertrude sniffed, only then realising that they were not, in fact, alone. Her eyes transcended Cyrena’s shoulder and found the face of the stranger; it took far too long for her to be certain. She frowned calculations at the mangled face, which returned her gaze apprehensively. Pushing herself back from Cyrena, she examined her friend’s expression before looking again at the man with long black hair and two independent eyes.
“Ishmael?”
He relaxed his doubt and smiled. “Yes, Ghertrude. I have come back much changed.”
She moved past Cyrena, who allowed their reunion a respectful space. With one hand still grasped by her friend, her other reached out and rested on his chest; he gently covered it with his own. The three of them stood, wordless, welded into a silent tableau that slowly softened and flowed, through the yard and into the house.
Mutter was just arriving as they got to the front door. They turned to acknowledge him and the young man waved. Mutter frowned back and nodded, attempting to smile while groaning inside. More strangers in the house. More odd doings and unpredictable relationships. A stunted root of defensive jealousy started sucking at the earth of his foundations. Who was this new boy, and what did he want with his ladies? Why had they picked up another one, after all they had been through? Could they not be contented with what they had and let him take care of them, make sure that they were safe from intruders and parasites? He had never quite seen them in the same way since his wife had confessed her anxiety about his desirability to them. In the months since, he had come to see her point of view, that she could have been right all along; it was only a matter of circumstance that the growing carnival mite was a stranger’s and not his.
—
Their conversation was long. Though they sat close to one another, the spaces between them were growing and flexing in all directions. Cyrena and Ishmael did their utmost to conceal their intimacy; Ghertrude and Cyrena did not speak of the baby, and Ishmael did not seem to notice its obvious presence. He had mated with both women, and, in each other’s company, both felt possessive and maternal about him in very different ways and to varying degrees. Surface tensions crackled and buzzed, building a static charge between their words and shaping the conversation into irregular troughs and peaks; doldrums of reflection mingled clumsily with elated memories; lows of tongue biting were interspersed with peaks of overly jovial camaraderie.
Cyrena ached to be closer to him, to touch and be touched again. She wanted to be at home with him, but her duty was here: She had pledged her presence.
Meanwhile, Ghertrude tried desperately not to stare at his new face and to fight back her overreaction at seeing their blatant love. She did not want him—indeed, she never had—but his distance was proving to be too much, too soon.
Ishmael sensed the women’s hunger and felt suffocated by it. He felt deeply for Cyrena, but he longed to breathe freely, and he made a bid to escape.
“Ladies, would you excuse me for a short while? It’s been a long time since I have been in this house and there are so many memories. Ghertrude, would you mind if I roamed around for a while and reconnected with my past?”
Ghertrude and Cyrena exchanged glances. Ghertrude nodded her assent, and he took his leave, closing the tall, elegant doors behind him on a conversation that he had no desire to hear.
He immediately bounded up the wide stairs to where his room had been. The proportions had changed again, another reflection of recollection, rather than scale. So much had happened so early, shunts of life that suddenly revealed themselves to be ill matched and opposite.
His room was unlocked and unchanged. He touched the bed and opened the wardrobe to see his history hanging there: so many textures and smells, so many memories of isolation. He went to the window and thoughtfully traced his finger along the spot where he had picked the paint off the shutter.
—
“What will you tell him?” said Cyrena.
“I don’t know. Nothing will be known until the birth. I don’t want to raise a false alarm for him; he has already been through so much.”
Cyrena nodded her agreement. “You are right, I’m sure. Until we are certain, it’s probably best to say nothing.”
“We are becoming very good at saying nothing.”
Cyrena agreed again in silence.
—
In the attic, he opened the shutter into the breeze and the courtyard below, leaning out to get a better view. He saw Mutter moving back and forth, changing the straw in the stables. He looked towards the cathedral and watched the jackdaws circle over the spires.
He needed to see more. He climbed into the tower and opened the swivelling eye of the camera obscura, observing the activity below, changing lenses to see inside it. The curved white table flooded with his memory of Ghertrude, the exposed parts of her body made whiter by the table and the squeezed light. He remembered watching her confusion turn into annoyance, then transform into abandonment and, eventually, satisfaction. He recalled the same transformation in himself, only in reverse.
—
“You mean you intend to live together as man and wife?” Ghertrude sounded disapproving and a little horrified.
Cyrena said nothing.
“Do you really feel so much for him? You hardly know each other. What about his past? I have told you something of his dubious origin. Doesn’t that concern you?”
Cyrena’s eyes were changing colour and shape, bracing themselves to protect what sheltered behind them.
“There are many things that I have not yet told you,” Ghertrude continued, “things you would not believe.”
“I don’t want the details about how he made love to you,” Cyrena blurted.
“Not that; things before any of that happened, when he was kept downstairs.”
“Ah yes! The mysterious teachers who lived in the basement, those that you saved him from.” Cyrena was turning on her friend, disbelief becoming her advancing weapon. “And then they disappeared, vanished into thin air. Am I right? Is that not what you said?”
“I boarded and locked all the cellar rooms after I got him out—”
“You mean they might still be living down there?” said Cyrena with a dismissive, unpleasant laugh. “Or did they vanish like Hoffman?”
Ghertrude glared at the question, feeling the restraints of their friendship being pulled taut.
“Well? Did they? Did Mutter spirit them away?” pushed Cyrena, the bit between her teeth, her tastes changing from defence into attack. “How many others have you removed to have him for yourself? Am I next?!”
The truth instantly quenched the rage flaring between them.
“It wasn’t as simple as that,” said Ghertrude. “They weren’t human; they were machines, puppet-like machines.”
—
He was tightening the strings, softly strumming them to adjust their pitch. The task gave him a place to think and recollect. The matter-of-factness of balance and modification separated his mind and let him wander back into the Vorrh. Nothing had happened to his memory. He had suffered no adverse effect. Was he immune to its legendary influence? Certainly, Tsungali had
been confused, and Oneofthewilliams had seemed positively deranged by it.
—
Cyrena’s jaw was hanging in astonishment. Ghertrude had told her everything, in great detail, with a delivery that was sparse and without emotion. There had never been the opportunity before, and she was finally released from the burden of her own disbelief. The naked facts of the impossible sounded firm and clear in the air, rather than forever tumbling around in the depths of her uncertainty, where they nagged and clotted, shifting focus into possible delusion.
When she had finished, both women sat in silence, a quietness that was unexpectedly gilded by sounds that seeped in from above. Wafts of celestial chords rolled and hovered down through the house, their beautiful eeriness making Ghertrude’s tale all the more strange. The tang of disquiet was smoothed out by the poignant resonance, and they sat in bemused silence, while Ishmael set more and more of the Goedhart device into action. The vibration passed through them, through the turning ball of life, through the furniture and the floors, and all the way down to the well, where its harmony increased and spun, igniting tiny engines that ignited tiny engines that ignited tiny engines.
—
On the way home, Ishmael tried to gently quiz Cyrena about their friend; he wanted the core of Ghertrude’s reaction, to know which way her thick waters flowed. The car slipped smoothly through the dark city; Cyrena’s thoughts were burrowing too deeply to answer. An odd tiredness was guiding her towards hibernation, to a place other than the previous glow she and Ishmael had generated, somewhere far from the cooling distance of Ghertrude and her latest stories of hidden monsters. In this brittle, shifting world, ruled by sight, Cyrena did not know what to believe or whom to trust; she wanted sleep and darkness and the hope she had always had before. She begged exhaustion, promising to speak about it later. She huddled deeper in her travel blanket and looked out at the bleary city, its house lights and fireflies wavering sympathetically to long-stringed music that still sang in her heart.
The ivy and some of the smaller, more tenacious plants had begun to entwine themselves through his nothingness. It brought them pleasure, an irresistible tingle that ran through them, almost to the tips of their roots.
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