The Vorrh

invisible master of the house. It had said she would be contacted again in a year, but almost two had passed and no communication of any kind had been received. She did not know whether she was being scolded or ignored; either way it made her feel powerless. So she retreated to her old rooms in her family home; her parents paid no attention to her comings and goings, being far too occupied with the business of the city, and she increasingly felt as though she had become entirely invisible. Even Mutter looked through her most of the time; only Cyrena seemed to enjoy her company and her mind.
    Today, though, she was back at the old house, pottering blindly about on a rainy morning, waiting for her friend to arrive. The message had come through: the cyclops had been found and taken to the old slave house.
    ‘What a terrible place to take the poor man,’ said Cyrena to Ghertrude when she came to collect her with her car. Mutter had opened the gate, showing even fewer manners than last time, guiding her through to the reception room with a grunt and slouch.
    ‘Why do you keep that ghastly man on?’ she said, as he sloped away.
    ‘He has his uses,’ said Ghertrude, who seemed distracted and focused elsewhere. ‘It was he who told me of the Orm,’ she said absently.
    ‘How did he know of such a thing? asked Cyrena, bemused.
    ‘The lower people are closer to the ground, they exchange stories about it. They are always talking about base actions or ghosts as things without speculation. They don’t have the space for philosophy. They work in the pinching enclosure of fact. So odd details and stories become important, like ideas do with us. It’s never been the educated classes that tell stories, carry legend or invent mythologies.’
    ‘Oh?’ said Cyrena, surprised and not quite understanding why the girl cared or understood. ‘But what about the Greeks?’ she asked, pulling a wisp of forgotten education to the aid of her feigned interest.
    ‘Exactly the same. The Titans started as no more than tribesmen covered in white mud, circling their huts, shouting stories under bull-roarers, to keep the women and children inside.’
    ‘Mm,’ said Cyrena.
    ‘I’ll tell you another thing: Mutter distrusts Dr. Hoffmann more than I do, something to do with his son, I think.’
    Cyrena had lost focus entirely, and was fidgeting to leave. The moment had come: she could finally thank Ishmael and begin their friendship together. At the gate, Cyrena looked at Mutter again; he was watching the purring limousine outside and ignored her interest. Ghertrude turned to him as they were about to leave, a look of pleasant companionship on her face. ‘We are bringing Ishmael home today,’ she said inclusively.
    She turned to get into the car, missing his expression, which suddenly turned ugly. Cyrena knew that her friend was utterly wrong to have any belief in this insolent oaf, and resolved to monitor his future involvement more carefully.
    In the car, she found Ghertrude’s distance annoying. She was there to share this moment, not ignore it. She asked, ‘Do you think he will be alright? Do you think his memory will be affected? He’s been in there a long time. He might not even remember me. How will I tell him all, explain everything?’
    Ghertrude had a genuine affection for her new friend and greatly admired her vivacious energy, but now she was sounding like a piping adolescent, fantasising over someone she had never met. She tried not to say it, but perversity was such a willing advisor. ‘He can be very difficult, you know; he is not like us, not at all.’
    Cyrena stopped talking, waiting to hear more, but that was all her friend said, and it sounded like a warning. They drove the last few miles to the slave house in silence.
    ‘He was bloody difficult to bring in. Are ye sure ye know this thing?’ Maclish’s charm had been left with all the empty bottles a long time ago, and the women flinched at his abrupt and coarse manner. The doctor interceded, literally stepping between them, grinning and blocking his partner’s impertinence.
    ‘What William means is that your friend did not want to leave the Vorrh. He struggled a great deal and we had to use much force to get him here.’
    ‘You did not hurt him?’ flared Cyrena.
    ‘No, mistress, he is safe and sound, as far as I can make out,’ said Hoffmann.
    Cyrena did not understand what he meant, but felt reassured.
    ‘He scared my men,’ joined in Maclish. ‘Ye