The Vorrh (20 page)

‘Master, what is this, why do you bring this?’ His bony finger shook as it pointed towards the gun. ‘Please, leave it in the bag. Where we go is sacred, such a thing is a blasphemy there.’

‘But, what about wild animals and those savage people?’ the Frenchman stuttered.

‘We will be walking with the Lord God; his angels will guard us.’

He dropped the pistol back in the bag and stepped slowly away from it. Seil Kor met him with a grin, and he moved to his friend’s side, gripping his arm conciliatorily.

‘Oh! One moment,’ said the Frenchman. ‘I have something for you.’ He removed the little tissue-paper package from his person and carefully unwrapped it, holding the gleaming crucifix up for his new friend to admire.

‘For me?’ asked Seil Kor, genuinely surprised.

The Frenchman nodded and handed him the chain; he fixed it at once around his neck. The cross shone brightly against Seil Kor’s jet-black skin and the others applauded the gift all the way to the door as they prepared to depart. By the time they crossed the threshold, the Frenchman was unrecognisable. He was happy and very at ease in his flowing robes. A prince of the desert, he thought – if only he had a photograph for his collection. He resolved to have one taken on their return, on the steps of the hotel, when he and Seil Kor would present themselves to Mademoiselle Charlotte, in celebration of their triumphant expedition.

* * *

Everything in the house was changing. All of the rituals, hierarchies and conventions were sliding over each other to find new settling places; Ishmael moved freely between the third floor and the attic, and the camera obscura had become a focal point for them all, even Ghertrude. Mutter’s collection of the crates was the only thing that continued, unchanged, twice a week.

Through Ishmael’s constant use, the spaces were becoming his own, his domain. Each place had its own sound, and Ghertrude and Mutter were able to track his movements from any part of the house. He could often be heard pacing and moving about in his rooms, rearranging furniture and adjusting the layout. In the attic, the strings would sing his presence, often for hours at a time. It was no longer an access space; he was making it important in its own right.

The tower of the obscura was marked by silence, quieter than sleep itself when he was there. His commitment held the house still, lifting it up by its scruff, so that it could be felt in its roots. But that was the one place he did not go: where she most feared he would be drawn to, where he might betray her more easily. She left nothing to chance, and had Mutter double-check the padlocks and barriers to the cellars almost daily. She told him clearly that it was forbidden to all, and that was the only rule of the house. He did not answer, but nodded in intelligent approval. Even so, she instructed Mutter to keep an eye on him, and the cellar door.

The old servant did not care much for the changes. He liked things in their places, with clear delineations between them. Being in the house now made him uncomfortable. He did not know when or where the cyclops might turn up, and he was still a little startled by his appearance. Furthermore, Ishmael was becoming more familiar: he sought interaction, asking him questions about his employment, his family, the outside world. Mutter had never been a great conversationalist, and with this weird creature he found it easier to scurry away or hide in the yard, with the horses. He enjoyed their dumbness; the rich smell of their bodies
and the perfume of the hay soothed him, and he would often take his lunch out to where they grazed. He smoked his bitter cigars in their mute company and watched the seasons turn, unhurried, and mostly safe. Sometimes, he felt keenly that he was being watched from above. He imagined his likeness, smeared on the circular table of that ungodly machine, the gloating eye tasting it like some terrible fish. The idea chilled him, and made him move further back into the stable, reassured by its shared warmth and temporary concealment.

Returning to the house late one day, he found the cyclops standing near the stairs of the ground floor, looking in the direction of the prohibited door. It worried him; he knew that he should say something, or take some action, but it was a position he was neither designed nor equipped for, and he could find no frame of reference with which to begin the necessary conversation. He stood, jaw open, vaguely moving his limp arms in unison, like a broken gate in the wind, or a disused pump, trying to raise a spoonful of water from some immeasurable distance.

‘Herr Mutter, where are the old crates?’ Ishmael asked, stepping into the doubt and reversing it, making the question his own. ‘I wanted to check something before you return them tomorrow.’

‘They are in the tack room, next to the stables,’ the yeoman replied thinly.

‘Show me,’ demanded the cyclops as he walked towards the door. Mutter opened the door for the young master and pointed, expecting his honest direction to be noted and the matter closed.

Instead, Ishmael strode out of the door and across the yard, leaving Mutter without words or action. The cyclops slid back the bolt on the tack room door and walked briskly inside. Mutter blinked hard, hoping that the rapid movement would return all things to their proper place, that this impossible thing would rewind and he would be exonerated of the stupid mistake he had just made. But alas, that was not the case. He dashed across the cobbles and erupted himself at the side of the escapee, who was casually
examining the side of a long, thin crate. Showing no sign of agitation, the cyclops asked, ‘At what time will you take these away tomorrow?’

‘At eleven o’clock, sir,’ answered Mutter, automatically.

The word ‘sir’ had entered Mutter’s mouth out of habit, and because there was no alternative. It was the first time Ishmael had been given status, and it marked a further shift in their dynamics – he knew now that the old man could be easily bent.

‘And where will you take them?’

‘To the warehouse.’

‘Good. I would like to go with you.’

Mutter’s heart ceased its beating and leapfrogged into his mouth. The cyclops walked past him into the yard, stopped and looked up to the rooftops, then beyond them to the fleeting clouds.

‘But sir,’ Mutter stammered, ‘it’s impossible, the mistress…’

‘…will never know,’ finished Ishmael. ‘It’s not the mistress who pays your wages, or cares for your family, is it? It’s not the mistress who cares for me, not really. The person or persons who look after this house are responsible for our well-being, Mutter. It’s my family that employs yours. And now, I wish to make a brief visit to them, to see, for a moment, the one other place that I know to be connected to me.’

‘But sir! I was told to take nobody there. Not even my sons may visit before they are ready to be trained in my job.’

‘Sigmund,’ said the cyclops in curved, enduring tones. ‘Don’t you see that everything is changed now? I am no longer a child. I have the house. Soon enough, it will be me who employs you. Ghertrude need never know about our little trip.’

Mutter was silent and horribly perplexed. He looked from his scuffed boots into the pleading eye, then back again.

‘Unless you’d prefer that I go by myself?’

Mutter followed his gaze towards the gate and saw that it was held on a draw bolt, not double-locked as he had been instructed. He knew that
the cyclops was agile and could reach the gate long before him; the only way to stop him would be to cuff him, or tackle him to the ground. He assumed that such an act would not be looked upon favourably by his unseen masters. He was beginning to panic, when Ishmael smiled and inflicted the coup de grâce.

‘I have no desire to get you into trouble, Sigmund. And I’m sure neither of us want Ghertrude to know about this afternoon’s little mistake; she is scared of me running away, and it makes her overreact. So, I shall say nothing tonight when she visits, and in the morning we will make a brief, discreet visit to the warehouse, yes? What do you think? Can we make our little adventure together and return without anybody knowing?’

Mutter gave in; there was no alternative. The delighted cyclops clapped his hands together in satisfaction.

‘Excellent! Come then, let us go over my plan,’ he said, propelling the deflated old man towards the stables and telling him to pick up his tools on the way.

The next day, they waited in different parts of the old property for Ghertrude to leave. Mutter stayed in the stables, with the crates loaded onto the carriage, while she and Ishmael ate breakfast together. When it was over, she left by the front door, calling to announce that she would be back by seven that evening. Ishmael waited impatiently for her nippy steps to vanish from the lane outside, then sprang to his feet and unlocked the front door. He hurried over to the stables, slipped quietly inside, and stepped onto the awaiting carriage.

The long, thin crate that had been ‘Lesson 318: Spears & Bows (Old Kingdoms)’ was securely strapped into the open rig. Its contents had been removed and now lay hidden behind a dusty old curtain in the far corner of the stables; their replacement crouched expectantly in his hiding place. A hole had been drilled in the side of the box, about a foot from the closed end, and Mutter saw the glimmer of an eye as he fastened the gates
behind them. He hadn’t said a word that morning; his instinct had been to obey in a stoic, inert manner, whilst desperately wishing for it to be over and done with as soon as possible.

The crazed and rattled fragments of the outside that Ishmael saw amazed and excited him. The confusion of scale and the smells of the factories unleashed sensory responses that he did not know existed. The colours were much brighter than the tower projections, and he felt the enormity of everything as the town burst with unbridled life. He had been right about their eyes; Ghertrude had told him the truth, and soon he would find out if Luluwa had too.

By the time they reached the warehouse, he was brimming with questions and choking with answers. Mutter unfastened the gates and led the horse through into the courtyard, tying the steaming beast to the front of the loading bay banisters and returning to the entrance to seal them within. He pulled a huge bunch of keys from under the driving seat of the carriage before knocking brusquely on the cyclops’ crate. Ishmael emerged, his one eye squinting as it adjusted to the light.

They entered the warehouse. Mutter went about his usual business, seeking notes and collecting the details of the next batch of crates. He turned to explain the importance of this function to the cyclops, but he was not there. The old man finished his tasks and waited for Ishmael to return to help him lift the boxes, but the minutes passed and he became impatient and angry, and decided to load the carriage himself. The two new crates were different from the rest, their labels no longer stencilled red, but now painted a regal blue.

As he loaded the wagon with his cargo, Mutter was desperately trying to construct a feasible story about how he had found himself in this position. His lies were monstrous and each more ridiculous than the last; even he could see they were totally unbelievable. By the time the escapee returned, he had decided that the truth was the only option.

‘Shall we go?’ said Ishmael.

The slim crate had remained on the carriage, and the cyclops squeezed back in, pulling the lid tight after him. His coffin journey home, though still eventful, was overshadowed by the stranger things in the warehouse; his mind raced with them. When the bumpy ride was at an end and they were enclosed in the stables once more, he slowly pushed his way out of his confinement with theatrical vigour.

‘Thank you, Herr Mutter,’ he said. ‘Our secret will stay intact. No one will ever know of our time together today.’

The servant opened the door to let him in. The sense of relief was wonderful, and he locked him in place at once, returning home before Mistress Tulp arrived; he had no intention of dealing with her as well that evening, or of letting her look into his far-too-honest eyes.

The next day, with a great lightness in his heart, he returned. He planned to tend to the horses, to spend the day in their magnificent, uncomplicated company and let the intricacies in the house take care of themselves.

He was beginning to feel at home again, the busy muck fork in his hands, when the voice of the warehouse boomed suddenly and gravely, in his ear:
‘Herr Mutter, you have disappointed us and grievously betrayed our confidence. For this, you will be punished. If this should happen again, the punishments will be amplified, and our blessings on you and your family will cease and turn against all. The hands of your first son, Thaddeus, have this day been removed. They have been crossed over and sewn on backwards, right to left and left to right. His palms will always face outwards. He will receive the best medical care until he is healed. His hands will be useless for work, but perfect for begging. You may save him from such a future, but not from the operation. That is the price you owe to us. Be calm, Herr Mutter, and remember our care and protection of your family over all these years. Accept your wrongdoing, repent, and return to our favour.’

When Mutter ventured home that night, he dreaded the reality that the voice had promised, but hoped that it might have been a delusion, a
befuddlement. He entered his home with permafrost rotting his heart. The rolling wave of warmth and the hug of coiled noise did nothing to thaw him. His wife took his heavy topcoat and seated him at the solid table as his daughter, Meta, brought him a mug of thick, black beer. He watched them flurry back and forth with steaming pots and clanking plates. The sumptuous energy of home, rich and seamless, stirred the glow of continuity out of the shards of necessity. The food was served, and everybody are enthusiastically. But Thaddeus’ chair was empty, and Mutter stared dumbly at his meaningless dish, its smell arousing nothing within him.

‘Where is Thaddeus?’ he choked.

‘Oh! Wonderful!’ his wife chirped. ‘A letter came with the possibility of employment, so he went to the eastern quarter; he should be home soon.’

The table fell away and sharp, inward tears fell to make a razor chain of slow constrictions inside his throat; it tightened with every joyous mouthful his family ate. No one noticed the change, not even his lifetime wife, and he swamped his horror and guilt in thick, heavy beer that stung with each strangled gulp.