The Vorrh

and weak to be trusted on the fast water, and with only one arm, it was useless. So they went by foot, back through the monsters’ hunting ground.
    Ishmael carried the bow; it had not left his hands since they realised that Williams had gone. It wormed itself into him day and night, burrowing into his future, drawing a blood line around all his maps of possible tomorrows. He dared not use it yet, fearing the momentum of its power when fully taut and waiting for release. Like a child, that virgin part of him shrank from the full volume and implication of such an act. He held it before him as they moved forward through the Vorrh, and the forest understood its new application of meaning. Not a creature dared approach them, and they were met by muffled silence all the way. The birds knitted their beaks; the animals bit their tongues; the insects froze and the anthropophagi ignored their passing. The silence infected their journey, making it strange and infuriating for Ishmael: he had many questions for his new servant, but nothing he said could provoke an answer.
    The pain amplified Tsungali’s introspection: the cyclops seemed to know nothing about the world. How could he begin to explain his history with Oneofthewilliams; his childhood; how he and his grandfather were shut behind glass in another world; the tragedy of the Possession Wars? There was too much to say and too little experience shared; better to be quiet and concentrated, stay on the track and get to the healing man as quickly as their wounds allowed.
    Ishmael missed Williams, missed his humour and protection. He had a warmth about him that the tattooed killer who now travelled by his side could never possess. The old man refused to answer even the simplest questions as they pushed through the undergrowth. Ishmael began to think that he had made the wrong decision. He should have stayed close to his friend and not let him leave so sadly. There was, he began to realise, little reason to trust his new companion; his promise of a new face might be a lie or a lure – Ishmael could be following him to death or worse. Why had he so hastily accepted this man’s servitude? He could see that Tsungali feared him, but did not understand his total abasement to him when he held the bow. He guessed it was some kind of primitive superstition, and pondered how he might be able to put it to his advantage. He wondered if it could be used to receive the answers he so desired. He changed the bow from one hand to the other, and then touched Tsungali’s back with its tip.
    ‘Tell me about this medicine man,’ he said.
    The effect was instant and undisguised. The old killer fell to his knees, placing his working arm in the air in a gesture of surrender; Ishmael circled him, looking closely at the trembling man’s face.
    ‘Yes, yes, I will say all, yes!’ rattled the mercenary, in a fast, breathless assent.
    ‘Then tell me about him, what can he do?’
    ‘He can fix your face, fix like other men; he can put my live eye in, fix it there so two eyes like other men. He can do many things, make a new hand, last time fixed jaw, fix bullet wound. Some say he plays with death so face fixing is easy.’ He was panting the words out like a running dog.
    ‘Why will he do this for me?’ asked Ishmael suspiciously.
    ‘Because of the bow, do anything for the bow, what bow says,’ the hunter gibbered in reply.
    Ishmael sat down on the earth and gripped the bow, turning it in his hands. He questioned his slave for an hour on all matter of things. The trembling man spat out a barrage of answers. Not all of it made sense, but Ishmael built a picture of his servant, of what he knew and how he could be used. When he had heard enough, he stood and pointed forward and the jabbering man led the way.
    The Erstwhile watched the performance peak and fade. They crept close, keeping themselves concealed; gradually, with the slow speed of great wisdom, they saw the bow. The self of it accumulated in them, like a residue of sand forming a mountain, grain upon grain, until it filled the entire landscape. They had not known of its presence in the forest while it had been in the grip of the white man. Now, in the hands of the cyclops, it broadcast its existence loud and far. They turned away and moved at painstakingly slow velocity, as far away as they could. Conventional hiding was not enough; they separated and found their own places to dig, clawing the stubborn earth and roots aside. All now