‘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?’