The Vorrh

said he was deformed, but none of us were prepared for this!’ He banged his hand on the metal door of the holding cell. A shuffling sound came from within. ‘We hope your presence will calm him down. I’m sure when he sees ye and hears your voice he will settle.’
    Cyrena was already pawing at the door in expectation; Ghertrude held back uncertainly.
    ‘It’s dark in there,’ growled Maclish.
    ‘Yes, he likes it like that,’ said the doctor, watching Ghertrude’s eyes.
    Maclish pulled the keys from his belt, put one in the lock and turned it. In his other hand he held a stock whip. The door creaked on its weight, and a huddled movement rippled under the straw and rags in the dark far side of the cell. They all came in and stood together. Cyrena hesitated, then walked forward.
    ‘Ishmael?’ she said quietly, and an attention was sensed in the far side of the room. ‘Ishmael, we have come to take you home, Ghertrude is here with me.’
    There was a distinct movement from under the straw, and everybody strained their eyes to make out the crouching figure. Maclish changed the whip from one hand to the other.
    ‘Ishmael, we have missed you, you will be safe with us when we return home,’ said Ghertrude, his proximity oiling the mechanisms of her voice.
    ‘Yes, we can leave now, please come with us,’ said Cyrena. ‘Do you recognise me? I am the Owl. I am the one that you spent a night with during the carnival.’
    Maclish curled his lip and he and the doctor exchanged an astonished glance. The figure moved out of the shadows towards them.
    ‘Yes, that’s it, come to us,’ said Cyrena and turned to Ghertrude, beaming and shaking. ‘He knows me!’
    Smiling with tears in her eyes, she turned back as the figure moved forward into the ray of light, which came in through the barred windows and divided the room. He looked up at them, and both women started to scream.
    * * *

    Tsungali tripped over the pot. He had not seen it sitting clearly on the path. How could that be: he was an experienced hunter who normally missed nothing. Then he realised it was because his attention was focused on the movements and sounds around him, drawn by the trees to identify who or what was watching him. He had been doing it subconsciously; now he was aware.
    He cocked the Enfield and stood stock-still. The shards of the flimsy pot cracked beneath his boots. Something was here with him, there was no doubt. He said a spell and spat into the undergrowth. There were all kinds of beings here, everybody knew that. He hated this place, and never dreamed of pursuing a quarry here. The circumstances had changed and the spirits moved against him; his twitching wounds continually reminded him of that. He should have been able to kill the white man before now, should have been able to stop him from entering this haunted realm. But he was no ordinary white man. Tsungali thought he might even be a ghost, or one of the creatures that steals the bodies of the dead to wear, or takes their faces. He had recognised Williams as soon as he’d seen him, but could not believe it possible. He should have died with all his company of lying invaders in the first days of the Possession Wars. Even if he had escaped, he should be older than this, not exactly the same age as he had been the day he returned from the beach. Tsungali looked for a moment at his gnarled, knotted hands. He felt his years ache in the hinges of his joints.
    Was it the Bowman that he felt watching him beyond the trees? Was it he who left this dish in his path, to spook him? He spoke another charm, whistled and spat. There were worse things than the Englishman, even if he was a ghost.
    He continued to tread slowly forward and, after some hours, he saw another pot. It was full of steaming, fragrant food. He savagely kicked it off the path and moved on. He was going to tear the throat out of this enemy who played games with his hunger and his fear. The Erstwhile and the demons entered his thoughts, but he knew that they did not prepare food, not even as a sick joke to mock him. No, it was something else, something with human tendencies, which, of course, made it terrible in a different way. He was becoming more and more unnerved, when he suddenly heard the faint whistling in the sky. He had heard it before and it made his blood run cold. Then it came down through the leaves and branches directly above; he dropped Uculipsa and clasped his hands over his head, not daring to look up.