The Vorrh

Nebsuel showed Ishmael how to wash in the warm, pine-scented liquid in the bowl before him; he dried the new face with care and patted down his hair, which had grown long.
    ‘Very well, young master,’ said Nebsuel, fetching an oval mirror with a red cloth draped over it. ‘The time is here. Now you will see my handiwork and the way you will look in the world.’ He set the looking glass before the young man, whose apprehension made his cheeks turn pale. With a small, theatrical flourish, the healer removed the cover to reveal a blinking man, framed within.
    Ishmael could not move or speak; he touched his nose and the inset eye, dabbing at its reality. As the silence grew, Nebsuel became nervous: if this was not to Ishmael’s taste or requirement, there was nothing he could do. It was impossible to read Ishmael’s expression; he had not yet become used to flexing it, and the inevitable nerve damage made parts of it permanently impassive. The shaman watched with growing trepidation. The cyclops still had the hideous bow close by; his displeasure might become horrendous with its use.
    ‘What do you think?’ ventured Nebsuel. ‘I have used all of my knowledge; it is the best of my work, of that you can be sure.’
    The words nudged Ishmael. He stood up and very slowly approached Nebsuel. He took the old man’s hand and brought it to his lips. This was another kind of kiss, one that nobody had ever taught him.
    The days passed quickly, with each better than the last. He gained strength and learned much from Nebsuel, who found it novel to have such a keen and sagacious student; he could show off his knowledge and tell tales of wonders and impossibilities all day, without the young man’s attention ever straying.
    The face became pliant as Ishmael practised with it. His moods could be read, and communication became more fluent. The bow lived in a corner of the house, wrapped and silent, recognised but unengaged.
    Nothing had been heard of Sidrus. The dove did not return, so they could not know whether he was healthy and fuming with rage, or if he had painfully rotted apart. As the weeks passed, they became less watchful; Nebsuel removed some of the more virulent charms that he had placed about the house for protection.
    An unexpected friendship grew between the unlikely pair; for a time, they played at father and son. Tsungali occasionally came knocking at night, not to frighten them, but to announce his presence, and register an anxiousness about the length of Ishmael’s stay. For a while they disregarded him and continued to work together in the ramshackle house. But growth and satisfaction can only hold a young heart for so long, and one morning, without apparent reason, Ishmael announced that it was time for him to leave and find his place in the world.
    ‘What’s wrong with this being your place in the world?’ grumbled Nebsuel.
    ‘Nothing,’ replied Ishmael, ‘but I have another one that I must confront first.’
    ‘I suspect you’re right,’ said the old man, grudgingly.
    They spent the coming days making preparations for his departure. Like the experience of all about to separate, the strain of an imagined elsewhere bore a hurtful torque on the moments they actually inhabited. The night before Ishmael’s departure, when they heard the impatient ghost moving back and forth outside, Nebsuel became bad-tempered and melancholic.
    ‘Begone, you midnight nuisance! He will be yours tomorrow. Allow us a final evening together without your tramping.’
    The words seemed to resonate with the spirit of Tsungali; they heard him change direction and walk away.
    ‘Do ghosts ever sleep?’ Ishmael found himself asking.
    ‘Yes, but not the sleep of men; theirs is an emptier kind of slumber. Our sleep is always full: from catnap to coma, it brims over. Those hollow ones have thin, dangerous dreams.’ There was a pause, as if the air might be listening. ‘It is contagious to some; thin sleep can last for centuries,’ Nebsuel continued. ‘It can allow its owner to become modified or change themselves entirely. Some say the creatures that infest the Vorrh use it knowingly for that purpose, that they bury themselves deeper and grow young, in their desire to return to nothing. It’s the only way they can ever escape the Vorrh and their charge at its centre.’
    ‘If they lie buried and forgotten, how is this known?’
    ‘Because some get dislodged, dug up by animals or men, dragged to the surface. These