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 Ishmaeclass="underline" 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.