‘He is called Tsungali, he will be my servant from now on,’ said Ishmael to the frowning Williams, who, though amazed at the turn of events in his absence, was equally intent on his own change of course.
‘I know who he is. You are welcome to him.’ If Ishmael noticed the distance in his friend’s tone, he didn’t show it.
‘He knows a medicine man who can change my face; he has agreed to take us to him.’
Williams grunted impassively and started to gather his pack.
‘What are you doing?’ said Ishmael.
‘I have other things to do. Your leg is better and you have a slave to look after you now.’ At the word ‘slave’, everybody flinched, including its speaker.
‘Where will you go?’
Williams paused for a moment, his emotions playing wearily over his face.
‘Out of this godforsaken forest.’
They fell silent and still, each considering their position in the new pattern of things.
‘Maybe straight through and out the other side,’ said Williams finally, breaking the spell.
‘If you travel on, it will take your memory,’ said Tsungali, in his first unsolicited utterance.
‘What memory?’ shrugged Williams. ‘You know more about me than I do myself.’ He turned away from the questions and stooped to retrieve a blanket, dropping it near his growing bundle of belongings.
The rest of the day passed without much conversation. As the evening drew in, Williams gathered his possessions and moved them to another place in the forest. Ishmael assumed he would leave at dawn, and put together a simple meal, as he had seen others do. He lit the campfire, boiled water and waited. He and Tsungali were hungry and picked at the food. The bow rested against a nearby tree, its quiver hanging in the low branches: Williams could not be far away. But by nightfall, the cyclops’ comfort was replaced with anxiety, his appetite slipping away as the truth wormed its way into his stomach: the Englishman had gone. The bow was left in the flickering tree and its creator had departed, wordlessly, into the enveloping night.
The bells of the cathedral were wallowing the city in their depth and counterpoint when Cyrena read of the disappearance of Maclish and Hoffman.
Pacing the room in time with the bells, she tried to hold back a smile, knowing it was all connected in some way to their search for Ishmael. She felt responsible and elated in the same moment. She cared nothing for those men, but the consequences of these portent happenings had a weight that unbalanced her equilibrium, causing a flutter in her ribs and setting her imagination racing. The game was underway. A huge obstacle had been eradicated; her embarrassment had been erased with their departure. She rang for Myra and asked her servant to tell the chauffeur to bring the car as quickly as possible. She was going to see Mistress Tulp.
Fifteen minutes later, they were purring through the streets, the cathedral bells still ringing as she passed beneath the twin spires. She craned her neck to see the silver bridge and laughed aloud. The chauffeur gave her a glance in the mirror and she brought her smile under control. It would not do to be so obviously happy at the rogues’ misfortune. But in truth, it was not their disappearance but her reunion with a part of her self that had left her so elated, a part that had been imprisoned by their actions and attitude; she had almost forgotten that it was locked away until it had flown out of the rustling pages of the discarded newspaper.
By the time they reached 4 Kühler Brunnen, she had composed herself. She rapped sharply on the gate and heard shuffling on the other side. She rapped again. Not even the miserable servant would dampen her current enthusiasm.
Mutter opened the gate a few inches and peered at her.
‘Well, open up man, for goodness’ sake, let me in!’
Mutter reluctantly pulled back the heavy gate and stood aside.
‘That’s more like it,’ she said, beaming down at the wide man as he seemed to chew on a sticky and knotted word. ‘Now, go and tell your mistress that I am here,’ she commanded.
He made a strange gesture, his eyes seeming to roll around in his head, as if he were trying to observe the entire courtyard via his peripheral vision.
‘Please wait inside, madam,’ he said in a flush of unsurpassed politeness.
She was taken aback at such a remarkable change of attitude and let herself be swiftly escorted across the cobbled yard, away from the stables and into the house. He left her in the reception room and went to find Ghertrude. She was delighted that Mutter had responded to her firm but polite commands so welclass="underline" there was hope for the man yet.
Several minutes later, the door opened soundlessly and Ghertrude curved into the pale room. She had changed. Cyrena’s first thoughts were that she looked older since their last meeting, larger somehow, but that was impossible. Yet her complexion, it seemed, was also different to what she remembered. Cyrena’s new eyes were still hungry for detail, even if the rest of her mind found them rather too unrelenting.
‘My dear, how are you?’ she said, pushing aside her doubts to greet her friend with the great warmth and pleasure she nonetheless felt.
‘Very well, thank you Cyrena, how are you?’ Ghertrude replied, her few words exposing so much – it was obvious that she was anything but well. The speed with which she had politely changed the direction of attention was overly polite and Cyrena began to suspect that her presence was less than welcome. She quickly crossed the room and made a soft extension to grasp her friend’s hand. She saw the flinch; it was involuntary and momentary, but it was there. She held it anyway, shuddering at its coldness.
‘My dear, you are freezing!’
She instantly brought the warmth of her other hand to cup the cold paw. Ghertrude looked away. Cyrena’s concern grew; the inbuilt determination that so marked Ghertrude’s character was nowhere to be found: whatever had happened, it was serious.
‘What’s wrong, Ghertrude?’ she asked in a caring, solid tone.
She felt the movement again, trapped beneath the warmth of her grip. This time, it was not a flinch but a tiny tug of escape.
‘Ghertrude? Tell me. You know you can trust me.’
Ghertrude wrenched her hand free and looked at Cyrena with an expression that neither recognised.
‘Don’t treat me like a child!’
Cyrena felt the words slap against her face and looked on, speechless.
‘We are in serious trouble and you pretend nothing has happened?! You breeze in here as if all these horrors never occurred. You are laughing and I cannot even smile!’ Ghertrude was fighting back the tears, her shaking fists beginning to bunch. ‘I cannot sleep; I keep seeing those men and that horrible monster. Ishmael is lost and we will be dragged into the very depths of this dreadful crime!’
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 illegaclass="underline" 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.