The Vorrh

again, in the time before the outsiders came; in that house, no foreigner would ever tread. They sat together, his grandfather humming while braiding a cover for his sacrificial spear; they would sit like this forever, because the outside world, with all its dangers and strangers, was sealed off by an invisible sheet of magic; those who stared into their space could never get past its tense, crystal barrier. He and his grandfather would ignore them and go on with the business of their day, or else stare through them as though their faces were shadows, lost reflections of a remote and meaningless fiction.
    The dream was a good one, rich and secure. It must have lasted all night long; he awoke in the morning with it washing warmly around in the waters of his head.
    As dawn broke through the foliage, he found their tracks under the dew and followed up behind them. It was only then that he sensed it, saw the signs in their very footfall – the earth and the broken twigs in his passing left no doubt: one of them was his target, and he was finally certain of who it was that he followed. It was not a descendant, or a memory, or a ghost of another time; it was the same man, the same physical being who had first placed the rifle in his hands and trusted him to use it so many years ago; the only outsider who had ever understood some part of the True People; the one who was just, in blood and words. He had been with Irrinipeste all this time: that was why he had been so difficult to kill. At last, he understood how this man had overcome him.
    * * *

    They exchanged names the next morning and set about travelling on together. Theirs were the first conversations Ishmael had conducted with a human man, other than Mutter and a few carnival utterings: he had to learn more.
    ‘Why are you not repelled by me? Do you not find my face offensive?’
    ‘I have seen worse,’ said Williams.
    ‘Your answer surprises me. I was once told that everybody I met was certain to be disgusted by me.’
    ‘And who told you that?’
    Ishmael found himself recalling memories that he didn’t know he owned: of Ghertrude and Mutter; of the house and its high walls. As his explanations tailed off, he insisted on his question, until Williams gave in and answered.
    ‘Yes, back in the city you would be an oddity. Nobody has seen a real, living cyclops for thousands of years. Life would be difficult for you, you would have to hide. But here it is very different; you are but one of a multitude of strange things in this forest.’
    Ishmael limped along behind Williams, leaning heavily on the stick that the tall man had cut for him. He felt compelled to press the issue further.
    ‘But you could have passed by when I was attacked back there. And you still help me now. Why is that?’
    ‘I suppose I could easily have left you. But everything here has meaning: all my purpose seems to be locked into the secrets of the Vorrh. I don’t know how, but it’s possible that you are a part of that. And anyway, I would leave no creature to the mercy of those man-eating monstrosities.’
    ‘But what if it was they who were a part of your destiny here?’ asked Ishmael intently.
    ‘Then it was their destiny to die and my destiny to help them do so. You were simply the trigger to the event.’
    The cyclops fell quiet; being a trigger to somebody else’s event was far beyond his experience, and he was not sure how comfortable he was with the notion.
    They walked for three hours on a high ridge that petered out into a solid plane of trees.
    ‘There is the centre,’ said Williams, ‘the core.’ He pointed across into the middle of the dense mass. He unslung his bow and looked around. ‘Stay here. I shall return in a short while.’
    Before Ishmael could protest, he walked out of sight, using the shoulder of the ridge as a screen between them. The cyclops sat down and examined his bandaged leg. He heard the arrow loose and felt the strange emptiness in its wake. Ten minutes later, the Bowman came back to stand over him. The same look of loss and confusion had stolen his confidence again. His hands were stained black from the bow and he was searching Ishmael’s face for an answer to which neither of them could find the question.
    * * *

    Tsungali always completed a task once he had undertaken it, but something in him had deserted him this time; his purpose had dwindled. His prey had power and identity, and he was not alone. They were ahead of him, and all he