The Vorrh

out an invisible circulation in which they had once shared everything. The pounding veins and singing capillaries that had held every reflection and nuance of their world had disappeared; the flow between them that had made one soul of their minds and bodies had ceased, somewhere in the Vorrh. Now, not even the recollection of their transfusion existed. They were two things: a man and a bow.
    He could never return to all that he had forgotten, and he understood the road ahead must be walked alone. He walked back into camp, undone and clear, smelling the new breeze in his tight, half-sobbing lungs.
    ‘He is called Tsungali, he will be my servant from now on,’ said Ishmael to the frowning Williams, who, though amazed at the turn of events in his absence, was equally intent on his own change of course.
    ‘I know who he is. You are welcome to him.’ If Ishmael noticed the distance in his friend’s tone, he didn’t show it.
    ‘He knows a medicine man who can change my face; he has agreed to take us to him.’
    Williams grunted impassively and started to gather his pack.
    ‘What are you doing?’ said Ishmael.
    ‘I have other things to do. Your leg is better and you have a slave to look after you now.’ At the word ‘slave’, everybody flinched, including its speaker.
    ‘Where will you go?’
    Williams paused for a moment, his emotions playing wearily over his face.
    ‘Out of this godforsaken forest.’
    They fell silent and still, each considering their position in the new pattern of things.
    ‘Maybe straight through and out the other side,’ said Williams finally, breaking the spell.
    ‘If you travel on, it will take your memory,’ said Tsungali, in his first unsolicited utterance.
    ‘What memory?’ shrugged Williams. ‘You know more about me than I do myself.’ He turned away from the questions and stooped to retrieve a blanket, dropping it near his growing bundle of belongings.
    The rest of the day passed without much conversation. As the evening drew in, Williams gathered his possessions and moved them to another place in the forest. Ishmael assumed he would leave at dawn, and put together a simple meal, as he had seen others do. He lit the campfire, boiled water and waited. He and Tsungali were hungry and picked at the food. The bow rested against a nearby tree, its quiver hanging in the low branches: Williams could not be far away. But by nightfall, the cyclops’ comfort was replaced with anxiety, his appetite slipping away as the truth wormed its way into his stomach: the Englishman had gone. The bow was left in the flickering tree and its creator had departed, wordlessly, into the enveloping night.
    * * *

    The bells of the cathedral were wallowing the city in their depth and counterpoint when Cyrena read of the disappearance of Maclish and Hoffman.
    Pacing the room in time with the bells, she tried to hold back a smile, knowing it was all connected in some way to their search for Ishmael. She felt responsible and elated in the same moment. She cared nothing for those men, but the consequences of these portent happenings had a weight that unbalanced her equilibrium, causing a flutter in her ribs and setting her imagination racing. The game was underway. A huge obstacle had been eradicated; her embarrassment had been erased with their departure. She rang for Myra and asked her servant to tell the chauffeur to bring the car as quickly as possible. She was going to see Mistress Tulp.
    Fifteen minutes later, they were purring through the streets, the cathedral bells still ringing as she passed beneath the twin spires. She craned her neck to see the silver bridge and laughed aloud. The chauffeur gave her a glance in the mirror and she brought her smile under control. It would not do to be so obviously happy at the rogues’ misfortune. But in truth, it was not their disappearance but her reunion with a part of her self that had left her so elated, a part that had been imprisoned by their actions and attitude; she had almost forgotten that it was locked away until it had flown out of the rustling pages of the discarded newspaper.
    By the time they reached 4 Kühler Brunnen, she had composed herself. She rapped sharply on the gate and heard shuffling on the other side. She rapped again. Not even the miserable servant would dampen her current enthusiasm.
    Mutter opened the gate a few inches and peered at her.
    ‘Well, open up man, for goodness’ sake, let me in!’
    Mutter reluctantly pulled back