The Vorrh

real, and she was losing authority over its direction.
    ‘I don’t know what you mean and have had quite enough of this!’ she said curtly. ‘Now, I must be going, I’m already late. Please do not loiter around my door any longer!’
    She turned to leave, but a figure stepped out behind her, blocking her path. He had been born without eyes or nose; smooth planes of skin covered the areas where the sockets and nostrils should have been. He reeked of vomit and gastric juices, and was laughing in astonishing proximity to her face.
    ‘Well now, m’lady, that’s no way to talk to folk who have come a long way to see ya, is it? Especially when you bin one of us!’ He lurched and grabbed her by the arm, his roughness too quick for her coddled reflexes. She struggled but he gripped harder, leering and laughing uncontrollably. ‘What’s wrong miss, don’t ya fancy me?’
    Incensed, she drew back her right hand and slapped him across his featureless face. He bellowed with laughter. ‘You’ll ‘ave to do a lot better than that!’
    They scuffled in a tight circle in the dirt of the road, her skin bruising and burning as he tried to pull her down, the others closing in to watch or listen to the fray, when suddenly he stopped, his hands covering his face. Everything became stationary; only the dust still moved in swirls around their ankles, beginning to swoop and settle about their feet. He let his hands drop to his sides, and a gasp rippled through the sighted members of the crowd.
    ‘What is it?’ bleated one of the blind. ‘What’s happened?’
    The question was greeted with silence. The scene before them was impossible, a blackly comedic spectacle of ugliness. Two slits had appeared beneath the brow of the man’s face, small incisions that seemed to be deepening, like cuts in fresh pastry. A clear fluid flowed out, something nameless and unfamiliar. A terrible awe fell upon the crowd.
    Cyrena was frozen to the spot, eyes fixed to the horror as her thumbs probed her fingers, checking for ornate rings and plausible explanations, anything that could have split his flesh so swiftly. The man was probing his face repeatedly, pressing his fingers into the slits, making them gape in wide, uneven ‘O’s. They gave him an expression of imbecilic amazement, as if he had been drawn by a child, his eyes rendered as two irregular, hastily pencilled dots. ‘I got eyes,’ he said, the crowd too gobsmacked to correct him. He waved his wet fingers in the air, seeming not to notice as all around him shrank away. ‘Eyes! I got EYES!’
    Cyrena jolted out of her shock and rushed at the gate, her keys still miraculously secure in her other hand. Nobody tried to stop her, and those nearest to her cowered away from the power of her speeding presence. She was inside before sense restored itself to them, and swiftly locked the gate as the cries of ‘Eyes! Eyes! Eyes!’ yelped behind her. She ran to the house and slammed the door behind her, hoping to shut out the noise of her spiralling life.
    As she attempted to calm herself with a pot of exotic tea, Cyrena sat and reflected on what had just passed. There was no way that her hands could have inflicted those wounds – if wounds were what they were. She examined the flat of her hand again. There was nothing there to cause more than a slap. So how could she have made that happen? There was only one explanation, and it was not one she considered easily. She regarded the balcony warily, then crossed to the doors, opening one just enough for the faint breeze to edge its way in and catch the fine hairs on her neck. Beyond the wall, a rise of discordant voices still made jagged sounds; cries of ecstasy and abuse, amplified by passion. She called her servant to her side with feigned ignorance.
    ‘Myra, why is there such a commotion outside the gate?’ she asked, with suitable distance.
    ‘I’m not sure, ma’am,’ the girl said in surprise. ‘I’ll send Guixpax to see.’ She left and Cyrena sat in the plush window seat, sipping at her tea and trying to appear ambivalent, while secretly straining to catch a shard of word from beyond the muffling wall. Down below, Guixpax, the gatekeeper and gardener, had been outside, and Myra returned with news from the street.
    ‘It’s rather unusual, ma’am,’ said Myra nervously.
    ‘Go on girl, I want to know!’
    ‘Well, it seems there is a poor, deformed mad man outside; the crowd are calling him a miracle worker!’
    ‘A