The younger woman was instantly overcome by a great gushing of previously contained emotion. She erupted in sobs and shudders, collapsing her stance and her speech into uncontrollable, wet convulsions. Cyrena guided Ghertrude to the sofa as she gave in to the tumult and wept until there was nothing left inside. Little sniffs punctuated the growing weight of her body as she fell into an exhausted sleep in her friend’s arms.
Cyrena was very still, cautious not to move and wake Ghertrude from the depth of such vital rest; she had been turned inside out by the strenuous action, but sleep would reform her in its flat, calm wake. They were both soaked from her tears; Cyrena’s blouse clung coldly against her bosom, where Ghertrude rested.
From her fixed position, she looked around the room, letting her mind recall their adventures together. Why had Ghertrude said ‘crimes’? Nothing they had done could be called a crime; their involvement with those dubious men may have been a secret, but it was not illegal: she had paid for their services, which had proved to be less than useless. She moved slightly, to shift her weight; the sleeper gave a quiet moan. Cyrena stroked her friend’s head and settled her weight again. She continued her casual inspection of the room, trying to alleviate the growing discomfort and take her mind off the pins and needles developing in her feet.
Sometimes, she thought her inquisitive eyes had a life of their own; they constantly flitted and settled on things to embrace their shape and meaning. They looked into the tangled garden of the Persian carpet, imagining all kinds of Arabesque creatures hiding within. They stroked the curved legs of a dark mahogany chair and rolled smoothly over its satin cushion. They took in the squat shadow that crouched behind the chair, swept over to the bright brass of the fireguard, then flicked quickly back to the shadow to look more deeply.
There must have been a shock of recognition, because something awoke Ghertrude. She flinched and pulled herself up, realising her
embarrassing position. Still confused and wiping drool from her face, she noticed thin traces of it on Cyrena’s blouse. ‘Oh, oh, I am so sorry!’ she spluttered. ‘Please, forgive me, this is dreadful.’
She arose quickly and staggered back, still unbalanced from her folded sleep and the sticky webs of its unformed images. Cyrena was on her feet and ready for her fall, her hands outspread. Ghertrude righted herself and looked at her friend, clasping both Cyrena’s hands in her own. She had returned, secure in her old self.
‘You must think me such a fool, how can I ever apologise? I am so sorry, I have not slept for three nights and my nerves are worn ragged.’ She again noticed Cyrena’s crumpled, wet blouse and her own dampness. ‘Please, forgive me. You have been such a dear friend and I have treated you terribly. I will get something warm for you to wear and light a fire; it is cold in here, we hardly ever use this room.’ She fussed, dithered and twirled, making her way to the door. ‘I will be back in one moment,’ she said, ‘please, make yourself comfortable, we will light a fire.’
And then she was gone. Cyrena waited for silence, then swiftly crossed the room, searching out the Gladstone bag which skulked behind the chair.
Several minutes later, Ghertrude returned carrying a dressing gown and a tray with a flask of warm milk laced with rum. Mutter followed, holding kindling and logs. Cyrena had returned to her seat, but her colour had changed; she was pallid, and her smile was drawn over clenched teeth. The preoccupied hostess failed to notice the change in her friend; she was too busy lighting the fire and laying out the drinks. Ghertrude offered the dressing gown for her damp friend to step into, holding it out with a smile and a flourish, like a suddenly joyful matador. Cyrena donned the gown and they sat together with their warming drinks in front of the blazing fire. Mutter left the room without a word, but with a significant glance at Ghertrude, which they both assumed Cyrena was oblivious to.
‘Cyrena, please forgive my appalling behaviour. I am very tired and under the weather.’
‘I should have told you I was going to visit, I think I took you by surprise,’ said Cyrena, sipping her drink.
‘No, no, you are always welcome. Now tell me about what you have been doing.’
Cyrena was not prepared to change the subject, but patronised her friend for a moment.
‘Oh, this and that, attempting to find another purpose in my life.’
Ghertrude raised a quizzical eyebrow and cocked her head.
‘Did you hear about Hoffman?’ Cyrena probed.
‘Oh! Yes, he disappeared, didn’t he?’
‘Off the face of the earth.’
Ghertrude changed the subject immediately, though only as far as Hoffman’s unfortunate accomplice. ‘And what about the other one? Maclish!’
‘Yes, he too, apparently.’
They put their drinks down simultaneously, as if to mark the end of a difficult conversation.
‘I feel I must apologise again,’ said Ghertrude.
‘You mean for not trusting me?’ said Cyrena, closing in.
‘Well, no, I meant…’
‘I know what you meant. And I know what’s disturbing you,’ interrupted the older woman.
‘I am just unwell,’ Ghertrude stammered.
‘Don’t lie to me! I deserve more than this,’ replied Cyrena, her voice rising and changing pitch. ‘I truly am your friend; now tell me the truth!’
Ghertrude was silent.
‘Ghertrude, tell me the truth; I already know what you are hiding.’
‘It is… very difficult for me to say,’ said Ghertrude gently.
Cyrena looked at her silently, her eyes dark and demanding. She would not be deterred.
‘Very well,’ Ghertrude sighed. ‘I am pregnant.’
* * *
The two wounded men made their way out of the Vorrh, to the island where Nebsuel dwelt. Tsungali’s hidden boat could not be used: the cyclops was too skittish and weak to be trusted on the fast water, and with only one arm, it was useless. So they went by foot, back through the monsters’ hunting ground.
Ishmael carried the bow; it had not left his hands since they realised that Williams had gone. It wormed itself into him day and night, burrowing into his future, drawing a blood line around all his maps of possible tomorrows. He dared not use it yet, fearing the momentum of its power when fully taut and waiting for release. Like a child, that virgin part of him shrank from the full volume and implication of such an act. He held it before him as they moved forward through the Vorrh, and the forest understood its new application of meaning. Not a creature dared approach them, and they were met by muffled silence all the way. The birds knitted their beaks; the animals bit their tongues; the insects froze and the anthropophagi ignored their passing. The silence infected their journey, making it strange and infuriating for Ishmael: he had many questions for his new servant, but nothing he said could provoke an answer.
The pain amplified Tsungali’s introspection: the cyclops seemed to know nothing about the world. How could he begin to explain his history with Oneofthewilliams; his childhood; how he and his grandfather were shut behind glass in another world; the tragedy of the Possession Wars? There was too much to say and too little experience shared; better to be
quiet and concentrated, stay on the track and get to the healing man as quickly as their wounds allowed.
Ishmael missed Williams, missed his humour and protection. He had a warmth about him that the tattooed killer who now travelled by his side could never possess. The old man refused to answer even the simplest questions as they pushed through the undergrowth. Ishmael began to think that he had made the wrong decision. He should have stayed close to his friend and not let him leave so sadly. There was, he began to realise, little reason to trust his new companion; his promise of a new face might be a lie or a lure – Ishmael could be following him to death or worse. Why had he so hastily accepted this man’s servitude? He could see that Tsungali feared him, but did not understand his total abasement to him when he held the bow. He guessed it was some kind of primitive superstition, and pondered how he might be able to put it to his advantage. He wondered if it could be used to receive the answers he so desired. He changed the bow from one hand to the other, and then touched Tsungali’s back with its tip.
‘Tell me about this medicine man,’ he said.
The effect was instant and undisguised. The old killer fell to his knees, placing his working arm in the air in a gesture of surrender; Ishmael circled him, looking closely at the trembling man’s face.
‘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.
‘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’ 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 fresh water 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 Wiseman’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.