The Vorrh

it worse; his distrust of French claims was long-standing and inherent – he often found them to be greatly exaggerated, and the natural boundary between fact and fiction to be a lot less substantial in France. Even Marey, with whom he had exchanged many ideas, had a fanciful turn of mind that was more interested in the aesthetics of his machines than the result they were supposed to produce.
    He suddenly realised where he had heard Charcot’s name before. ‘Yes, Salpêtrière!’ he exclaimed with relief, happy to be able to prove his knowledge. ‘The Parisian teaching hospital.’ His host looked at him oddly.
    ‘Yes, precisely. You should go,’ said Gull, closing the subject.
    Muybridge realised he was not going to talk his way into Gull’s private wards. He understood for the first time that Gull had no real interest in him. It had been the malady that had sparked his interest, not the man who bore it. The surgeon wanted a new set of tools to reach in and adjust, to be able to remake the man. The individual was incidental and expendable to his quest. He glanced at his host as the understanding dawned, but the man in question was looking again at the Ghost Dance photograph.
    ‘Remarkable; the strength of willpower.’
    ‘Like that poor woman,’ Muybridge said.
    ‘Yes! Exactly!’ said Gull, the energy of a small, wiry man jumping up and down inside his solid, unmoving frame. ‘The determination of that pathetic creature to believe in her view, even until death itself. And I have others who show even more voracity.’ He pointed at the shaman. ‘If that willpower was focused like these, and sharpened with knowledge, well… then we would have an instrument to investigate and repair the soul of any man or woman. I could put my hands into their heads and hearts and change everything.’
    Muybridge nodded silently.
    Outside, the London particular 2 had arrived, a dense and all-consuming fog that swallowed light and dimension, misplacing the blurred sounds of the city. As he stood in the dim, damp chill, Muybridge realised that Gull had said nothing about the print of the eclipse, although he had touched it repeatedly throughout their conversation.
    He tried to find a cab in the confusion of muffled shadows and sounds, but failed, and realised that he was lost. His only way home was to ask each person he bumped into which way he should go. Stepping stones, again; stepping stones in a fog. His life was full of them.

* * *

    They were still talking about Adam when he thought he recognised the broader track as the one that would lead towards the station and, hopefully, the waiting train. He had endured quite enough of this. Even with Seil Kor’s fanciful stories and his warming presence, he wanted to be back in the hotel with hot water and cold wine. His ankles and toes hurt from the exertions needed to keep his ruined shoes intact. The bruises, cuts and insect bites rubbed incessantly against his stained robes, the texture of which now expressed itself as irritant and rough. Dried saliva still covered him and had turned rank and sticky under the humid heat of the forest, its persistent odour seeming to have gained access to every pore of his exhausted body.
    ‘Adam will never leave now,’ Seil Kor was musing. ‘The angels have grown old and weary in the forest; perhaps they have forgotten their purpose. Perhaps God has forgotten them all.’
    Uculipsa moved out in a long, slow motion, the gleaming bolt pulled back and forth to load one of the charmed, .303 rounds into the breach. The nose of the rifle poked through the bushes, sniffing at the voices that were approaching.
    ‘How much further do we have to walk?’ asked the Frenchman, realising that he had recognised the wrong track and that there was no sign of the rail line.
    ‘Two more hours,’ answered Seil Kor.
    Tsungali pulled the eager rifle back; it was not his prey. He slid the bolt open and removed the cartridge, placing it in one of the charm pouches he wore on a bandolier. He did not see the thin trace of string escape from the flap of the pouch, the low, damp air catching it in a gust of heated breath. Every bird in the immediate vicinity took off in a startlingly discordant flapping of wings. Tsungali’s gaze twisted up sharply and he observed them in keen suspicion, as they filled all the spaces in the sky between the leaves of the canopy. Seil Kor and the Frenchman also stopped in their tracks to look towards the shudder in the