“Who is he?”
“Who is who?”
“Professor Barnet.”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, ‘who’?”
Both men stopped talking while Nicholas thought for a while, cocking his head in a studious fashion, stroking his chin. In profile Hector thought he looked like the Sidney Paget illustrations of Sherlock Holmes from The Strand Magazine and was surprised he had not noticed it before. He brightened at the likeness; then the tall man answered.
“Too-wit too-woo,” he said energetically and was very pleased with himself.
Hector’s mouth sagged open before it puckered into a livid snort. “Hundsfott,” he spat out and stomped off, away from his imbecile protector, downwards towards the sanity of the noisy street.
In his temper he hammered the pavement, walking fast, his velocity powered by mutterings and curses on his way back towards Whitechapel. Passersby cringed and flinched out of his way: a small angry tweed cannonball parting the waves. He stopped somewhere in the hub of Threadneedle Street, a little lost but more surprised by his speed. His irritation with Nicholas had been burnt off, its vapour trail snaking through the old streets. He had suddenly become conscious of his actions and the effect of them on the crowds around him. He had not stopped to take a breath once and was now ready for more. His body felt lithe and wired by adrenaline. But this is impossible, he thought. He should be wheezing, panting, and fatigued. But every muscle said the opposite, they were just warming up. He gazed about him finding his compass point, and decided to test this phenomenon. What was there to lose? He had already given himself up for dead or dying years ago. Better to be extinguished by a heart attack while enjoying the gleam of health rather than rotting away in a bed somewhere or being blown asunder in one of Nicholas’s future explosions. He turned his head towards the east and reared up into an expansive strut. Again the crowded pavement cleared and in his wake he left dozens of mystified strangers. By Aldgate he was trotting and had lost his hat, spinning below the dynamic wedge of Gardeners Corner under the hissing tram wires. The wind tore at his head, dragging at his unwoven strands of hair, pulling them behind him, trailing out like an imaginary heroic mane. In Whitechapel Road he was running full pelt, the faces and shops flapping past him, exhilaration burning oxygen brightly. A woman at a costermonger’s stall screamed as he passed, dropping her paper bag of shocked bouncing oranges. Others called after him without anything to say. One of Solli’s khevre was loitering outside the Pavilion when he thought he saw the hirsute Hector barrelling past. “Don’t be silly,” he said to himself and turned back to his halted conversation. Such general amazement is often accompanied by a sense of goodwill and innocent pleasure, but not in Whitechapel, where running had a very different meaning. It was outside Lord Rodney’s Head that a police constable attempted to halt Hector’s progress.
“Oi, stop!” he bellowed, stepping in front of what looked like a manic, ancient wereferret.
The bulk of the blue-clad man was brushed aside, leaving him tottering on his hobnailed boots to the great entertainment of the crowd. Hector did not even slow at the base of his stairs but ran straight up, leaping the flights, eventually breaking only at the normality of his own front door and his need to find a key rather than just crashing through it.
Inside he peeled off his coats and shirt and stood by the sink looking into the meagre mirror at a panting creature that he had never met before.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The news from Germany was not good. The telegram soliciting help to remove or at least realign the military officers who had arrived and were making outlandish requests failed utterly. The answer was bitterly disappointing and blindingly simple. They must be obeyed. Whatever their request. Talbot called the guild together to announce the news. Krespka saw it as Talbot’s own personal failure and stormed out of the room in a rage. The others just sat silently around the oval table and stared into the perfection of its polished surface.
Since the explosion in Essenwald the military had become suspicious of everybody. Guards had been doubled and a greater need to show their superior power was thought necessary. In the station, Sturmbannführer Keital and his men had already taken over. Nobody dared to argue with such uniforms. When the confirmation came from the guild that everything must be done to meet the Germans’ needs, the operation was already under way; the train had different flatbed trucks attached, and the stored and spare replacement rails had been loaded, along with acres of sleepers. The rest would be cut from the living forest as soon as more steel arrived. But for now they had enough to make a productive start. Troops were arriving daily in heavy canvas-covered trucks. All was ready to extend the track and cleave the Vorrh, making a sensible route to the rest of the conquerable world. The entire workforce of the city was more than happy to help load the train and see the newcomers on their way. But not one stayed on the train when it started to move. Even though the officers were screaming commands and telling everybody to get on, nobody moved. They just watched the massively creaking carriages stunt and shudder forward as the engine strained against the weight, trying to find its purchase on the rails before it could move forward.
Gauleiter Plagge stepped down from one of the flatbeds in a crisp, even movement. He was a small man who looked like he had been born wearing his present uniform. He stepped over to the band of workers who had just finished loading the train.
“Get on, you are going with this cargo to construct the line.”
Nobody moved or spoke. He came up close to one of the towering sweating men.
“Get on the train,” he demanded. The man ignored him.
“Get on the train!” Plagge shouted, spittle flying from his mouth and onto the man’s bare black chest. He looked back towards the engine and his commanding officer, who nodded loudly. Plagge fumbled for his holster while everyone looked on, frozen in the inevitability of the moment.
“On the train!” he screamed again, the barrel of his Luger in the man’s face. He sluggishly obeyed the command, slouching sideways to mount the flatbed, followed by all the others who had been rounded up by the armed soldiers. A great mass of workers and station staff clung to the piled steel tracks and sleepers as the engine finally gained sufficient traction to move off. The troops scrambled onto the last two carriages as the train crawled out of the station. Talbot had been watching the event with Fleischer at a safe distance.
“This will all lead to disaster,” he said and Fleischer nodded.
* * *
—
The first man jumped from the train as it entered the rim of the Vorrh. He was followed by almost all of the others, who preferred the risk of a broken neck to the certainties of brain death in the merciless forest. The soldiers had no idea what to do and most of the absconders had gone before they became aware of the mass exodus. One fired his machine gun into the speeding undergrowth. This alerted the officers, who had been enjoying the ride on the footplate of the roaring engine. They ordered Oswald Macombo, called Hoss to halt the train, which took a considerable time because of the weight, speed, and momentum of the load. By the time it grated to a halt, every man of the forced expedition had vanished, making their own slow way back towards the city and its outskirts, having no intention of going anywhere near the station or the lumber camp again. At least not until the Men Without Substance grew wise again. Retribution would be avoided this way, because the one thing they had learned about all the intruders was that they could not distinguish the difference between one black man and another.
After the soldiers had been screamed at by Plagge, the officers gathered to save some kind of plan out of their aborted expedition. There was no point in going on. Nothing could be achieved without an active workforce. They had of course heard about the Limboia, and that just made them even more infuriated and disgusted. Nothing in this ramshackle godforsaken pit of a town could be relied upon. Ther
e was only one option: to return and put the whole operation, including the train and the station, under martial law. They would bring in their own forces in bulk to make this venture happen. With this decided, they scolded Hoss into reversing the engine and driving everything back to where it had begun. They steeled themselves for the ridicule and laughter that would be waiting for them on their return, but were momentarily relieved to find the station and goods yards completely empty, as were most places they decided to go. The soldiers were marched back to their temporary barracks and the officers licked their wounds in the bar of the city’s finest hotel and planned their next campaign. Meanwhile, the guild could have its pathetic train back to ferry the soulless men and the stinking wood. Hoss let the pressure down, slowly opening all the veins of the engine, and went home.
* * *
—
Talbot and Fleischer, with the blessings and the spurs of most of the Timber Guild, tried once more to reason with the officers. Troops had been arriving all week and the train station of the timber yard had become their centre of operations. Buildings had been requisitioned and tents erected around them. Metal rails were being ceaselessly manufactured in the company smithy, and the goods carriages added to the ever-increasing length of the train. Nothing would slow or stop their commitment to driving a track through the entire Vorrh. Even some of the guild members were beginning to believe it was possible, getting caught up in the impressive determinism of mechanical momentum. The fear of the Vorrh suddenly felt a long way off. It was obvious the Germans would not be swayed by tales of legend and myth, even if they had all been proven to be true. So the only thing the guild had to rely on was the indisputable truth of the malicious effects of the forest on human health and well-being. With medical facts they might change the course of the proposed line. They were told to wait outside of Keital’s onsite office, the former stationmaster’s room. To wait in the sun and watch the hectic flow of uniformed men, who were now the only workforce to be seen.
“Come in, gentlemen, I can give you ten minutes,” said Keital, who was now at the door. “As you can see we are very busy.”
Plans and other papers littered the desks that had been dragged together to form a central block in the middle of the room. Fleischer wondered if they might have a model train under all the paper to complete the reality of their proposal. He was quickly shunted out of his reverie by the sight of Plagge at the other side of the room tinkering with the controls of the heavy and ancient fan that languidly moved over their heads.
“So what do you want?” asked Keital in the most disagreeable way possible.
The two men looked at each other briefly, then Talbot began.
“To discuss the possible dangers to your men of a prolonged stay in the Vorrh.”
Keital bristled and Plagge turned away from the troublesome controls and walked towards them.
“More nonsense,” he said.
“No, Gauleiter, concern, our genuine concern about the health and safety of your troops.”
Plagge made a deflated hiss and sank loudly into a chair.
“Continue,” said Keital, standing behind the impressive table.
Fleischer took the baton and explained.
“There is indisputable medical proof of a condition that affects anybody who spends prolonged periods in the forest. It affects the nervous system and the emotional stability of the sufferer. Severe cases lead to permanent loss of memory and alarming dislocation of identity.”
“You have it?” said Keital.
Fleischer was confused and assumed that the Sturmbannführer was rudely suggesting that he was a sufferer.
“Have what?” he said defensively.
“The medical proof you speak of.”
Fleischer did not know what to say and looked back at Talbot.
“Not as such, not on paper. But I myself have seen men grievously infected with this malady only after a few hours of exposure. Our own workforce is living proof of the long-term effect. If we might be permitted to bring them back to the slave house, then I can show you.”
Plagge perked up. “You still have slaves?” He sounded impressed for the first time.
“No, Gauleiter, they are not slaves, but damaged workers, who—”
He was interrupted by Keital. “These are the ghosts who cut down the trees for you and work without pay?”
“Yes, Sturmbannführer,” said Talbot, a glint of shame in his answer. “But they are not ghosts, they are real men who have been injured by the great forest.”
“What, have trees fallen on all their heads?” Plagge jested. He and Keital laughed merrily at the image.
“No, their minds have been damaged by some miasma, some magnetic influence in the Vorrh.”
“Oh, I see, the trees have brainwashed them.” They laughed even more. “But that is not difficult, they are only Negroes.”
Both men were besides themselves with glee until Talbot said, “Not all of them, and the same thing will happen to you and your men.”
The laugher stopped and Talbot knew he had gone too far and their case was lost.
“You dare to compare us to that worthless scum?” barked Plagge out of a suddenly scarlet face.
“No…I—”
“You still want to divert the purpose of the Reich with infantile stories of lazy sick Negroes?”
“Again, you waste our time,” said Keital, and sharply nodded at Plagge, who snatched the door open and used his chin to point at its exit.
Outside in the glaring sun they walked back into the city.
“We can do no more” was the only thing that Talbot said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It had taken some time, but Ishmael realised that the Kin had never been into the forest before. They looked at things, touched them as they walked, and sometimes drew each other’s attention to leaves or stones, the colour of lichen, or an animal moving above them in the trees. They made small noises as if conferring.
It occurred to him as he traipsed behind them that perhaps they had never been outside of Kühler Brunnen. Maybe never in the world at all. The thought reassured his pride; he might again become master here. After all, he was one of the most travelled men in the Vorrh: one of its survivors, his mind unscathed by its leaching effect. He was no ordinary man but something different, improved. Maybe he was a prototype, an original, just as Nebsuel had said all along. He should have listened more to the old man, stayed with him and kept his face unmarred. Perfectly other to the rest of humanity. Seth looked back over his shoulder to check on Ishmael’s well-being and progress. They caught each other’s eyes and made an assessment. Ishmael shaped the equation in his head and marvelled at its rightness. If I master the Kin in this place, then I will have their support forever. Perhaps there were more stored away in the house or crated in the warehouse that he tricked that fool Mutter into showing him. Maybe there were dozens: disciples. Or hundreds: a tribe. Thousands: an army.
They were walking deeper into the Vorrh on a path that was little more than an animal track. Ishmael was getting tired and hungry, and he asked them to find him some food. After their initial puzzlement and the explanation that they had no instructions, materials, or kitchen, they finally agreed to find fruit and roots. Seth started digging in the soft mulchy earth and Aklia climbed a tree. They had both retained some of the water from the pool somewhere in their heads or bodies and regurgitated it into Ishmael’s open hands so that he could drink. When they returned, they watched him intently as he gnawed on colourless tubers and slobbered berries and a guava-like fruit. He demanded more water and this time, so as not to spill a drop, Aklia pumped it directly from her hard throat into his sticky mouth, like a bird feeding her young. After his repast he sat with his back against a tree and felt refreshed. He touched his face and found the socket closing its jagged lips, healing together.
“Where are
we going?” he unexpectedly asked. His voice sounding strange and unneeded in the trees.
The Kin said nothing.
“How long are we walking for? I ask because if it’s many more days, then I will need better food than this. You might have to think about hunting something.”
A slight whirring chirp came from Seth, and Aklia moved her hand in a shape that was not a gesture.
“I will need proper sustenance for survival and keeping my energy levels high.”
Still no words to his questions and demands.
“What’s wrong with you, have you gone deaf and dumb?”
“No, we can speak and hear, but we have nothing to say,” said Aklia.
“Just answer my questions,” demanded Ishmael.
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t know.”
“We have no instructions,” added Seth.
Ishmael stared at them in disbelief. As he did so a yellow butterfly landed on Aklia’s hard brown chest, on the left domed bump that indicated that some part of her had been designated female. Aklia and Seth bent their heads to look at it, showing mechanical signs of what might be excitement in the lever actions of their limited facial expressions. Another butterfly landed on her shoulder, and they lost all interest in Ishmael. He started seething at their fickle attention and was about to speak again when the space between the trees changed colour and movement flickered there. A sound like rumpled paper filled the air, but softly, like the noise of snow landing. Yellow shimmered everywhere as a vast flock of butterflies came out of the forest. Tidal-waving between the dark verticals and falling in silhouettes against the bright sky that bobbed high in the canopy. Multitudes of butterflies arrived and perched on every inch of Aklia’s brown body. Seth stepped back and Ishmael stood up. Aklia extended her arms and made a sighing sound. More and more came and balanced one on top of the other until they were up to five or six deep. Nothing could be seen of Aklia, her slender, tall form having been fattened out into a pulsing mass of manlike proportions. More and more flittered towards her and settled on the delicate mass.
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