The Vorrh

knew that the bow was here, and they made grave-like hiding places, crawling in and pulling piles of earth and leaves over themselves. They lay still in their concealment, waiting for sleep; hoping to escape the ambiguity of dreams, the scent of which was most attractive to higher animals and other, more difficult entities.
    Nebsuel hid his shock at seeing Tsungali on his doorstep. So amazed was he that he scarcely noticed the hunter’s shaded companion, half-concealed by his hood and scarf. He brought them into his crowded workroom, a library of objects, bottled and stacked, shelved and hanging, boiled over, chaotic and alive, a vast collection of fragmented animal, vegetable and mineral from around the globe. He gestured to them to sit, and asked them to tell their tale.
    Tsungali told of his quest, and how it had changed. He said something of Oneofthewilliams, but not all. He told of demons and introduced Ishmael, who began to discreetly unwrap his face from within the scarf.
    ‘We have come to you for help. I am wounded again and my master needs rectification.’ explained Tsungali.
    ‘Master?’
    ‘Yes, master.’
    ‘Rectification?’ said Nebsuel, like a stranger trying out a word in a foreign tongue.
    ‘He needs a new face.’
    Nebsuel swung around to view the other man. He looked straight into the cyclops’ face, and a strange gleam engulfed his gaze. Ishmael looked at him warily, uncertain of this unusual response; his doubt did not last for long.
    ‘Wonderful!’ crowed the healer, unable to control himself. ‘I never thought I would meet one. DO YOU SPEAK?’ he hawked, apparently expecting the response of some cretinous species or another.
    ‘I do, but not in the crippled tongue of your native land.’
    ‘By the living gods, he is intelligent!’ declared Nebsuel, clapping his hands, a lascivious grin on his beaming face. ‘Forgive my rudeness young master, I mean no offence; I am simply staggered by your uniqueness. Please, let me get you both something to eat and drink, your journey must have been arduous.’ He turned quickly, leaving a trace of something moist and hungry in the atmosphere around their bare skin. Ishmael’s hackles rose. He could not understand why, but he did not like this man; he had the bearing and manners of a jackal, one that was wiser and more complex than anyone he had yet met. But he was a gracious jackal, and Ishmael’s stomach urged his trust to be stretched a little further.
    They ate and drank, taking fresh water into their parched throats. Their host opened a bottle of wine all the way from Damascus, where, Nebsuel explained, his forebears had come from. The Wiseman’s ancestors had travelled to fish the rich shoals of slaves hundreds of years earlier, building networks of communications that ran in all directions and to all lands. The exotic things in this room, and the wine itself, still passed through the gradually fading routes.
    ‘Tell me of your home and background,’ he asked of Ishmael.
    ‘They are unknown to me at this time,’ the cyclops replied regretfully. ‘Completely unknown.’
    ‘Ah, but you mean to find out?’
    Ishmael eyed him warily. ‘I do,’ he replied, uncertain of how much he could safely reveal.
    ‘Take care, rare one, origins are mysterious. There are tangles and causes, curves and strangers, which are sometimes best unmet. Stones that should never be turned. Especially in one like you.’
    It sounded like a genuine and sincere warning, and Ishmael began to warm to the shaman: perhaps he was only a wolf and not a jackal at all? Even so, Ishmael avoided speaking of The Kin or Ghertrude: his instinct kept them well away from the uncertainty of strange men.
    The conversation progressed and they talked about Nebsuel’s work. The old warrior promised Nebsuel he had a prize beyond riches, and that the medicine man would find time in its company a magnificent exchange for his skills. There was some laughter about the existence of such a treasure; the wine helped silken the conversation’s flow.
    Tsungali took the eye out with great care, picking bits of grass and dust from its slippery surface, and clearing a space on the table to allow closer observation. Nebsuel brought his magnifying glass near and directed a pointed lamp at the treasure.
    ‘You bring me another wonder,’ he marvelled. ‘Such bounty, such bounty!’
    He became hushed, bending closer to view the impossible again. Here was a new version of the thing he