The Vorrh

are the dangerous ones, because they no longer know what they are, and if they enter the world of men, they grow back deformed into its shape.’
    ‘You mean that some of them walk with us out here?’ Ishmael sounded at once fearful and defensive of his new world.
    ‘It is said to be.’ There was a pause while both men seemed to ponder the impossibility of such a thing.
    ‘Do they breed with women?’ said Ishamel.
    Nebsuel laughed. ‘It is better and worse than that. Some mix the contagion of their sleeping with a knowing human, and fuse with humans inside its influence.’
    ‘To what advantage?’
    ‘If an Erstwhile and a willing human enter that condition and seal themselves away from the world, they become something else, something quite different, without form, like a memory, a tangible genie of the place where they hide. It can insist itself into the imagination of all who that pass by, stirring up great feelings and powerful emotions in the unsuspecting traveller. Some say that such a thing has been used in the defence of holy places. Jerusalem is said to be guarded that way, protected by longing. It is even said that the spirit of the forest himself is composed of such an unmitigating force, that the Black Man of Many Faces is held together by it.’
    These were big thoughts for Ishmael, whose head was already full of the melancholy of departure. He asked no more questions, and Nebsuel offered no further wisdom. They stared into the fire as it flickered in its raised iron grate in the middle of the room. They stared and sipped wine and said nothing.
    The next morning they embraced in the doorway. Nebsuel had prepared a travelling bag full of potions and charms; it sat awkwardly in the door frame between them. The bow was already outside, and the old man felt a lightness and relief at its departure. As they said their goodbyes, Nebsuel gave his warnings and advice, and Ishmael offered his deepest thanks. They vowed to meet again, and parted.
    * * *

    It had been seven years since the outrage, and now he was returning to London by public demand. He wondered if his machine was still there, gathering dust in those lonely rooms. He had packed the pistol and the key to find out.
    For the first time, Muybridge was getting tired of his long transatlantic shuffles. Each trip seemed to take a little longer. The jewels of the night sky and the luminous waves seemed dimmer and less appealing, and he spent more time in his claustrophobic cabin, planning and brooding about what might await him.
    He would anticipate the criticisms of those who constantly whinged about the ‘validity’ of his work, and rehearse for their unprovoked attacks. He had hounded his critics ruthlessly with his letters to the press. The ship rocked against his adversaries, and all who would disclaim him: the cowards who hid in the shadows and waited for the moment to belittle him; those who objected to his retouchings, his improvements on the original, slightly blurred pictures; the artless, who envied his talent with the brush and the lens. He would have them all, open them up from crotch to craw for such impertinence. Again the ship rocked, and he thought about those who had betrayed him or let him down. There were many, and in some ways they were worse than the obvious foes.
    He wondered why Gull had stopped writing to him. The last four letters had gone unacknowledged; not even the set of prints he had sent appeared to warrant a reply. The doctor may have been busy, but surely it wouldn’t have taken much to extend a common courtesy?
    * * *

    Essenwald had changed; Ishmael sensed it the moment he entered its outskirts. It had grown impatience out of its security, become frantic and hectic inside the dynamo of its industry. All this was worn in the air: the scent of qualm.
    Walking through the streets, he shaded his face from the crowd. He was not yet used to showing himself openly. His was still a face that caught glances, made strangers gawp, but no longer in abject horror. Their reaction was now rooted in something else, a compulsion he did not fully understand, though he recognised at least three of its components as surprise, curiosity and pity. Of the few who had seen him so far, none had run or cried out in shock; either they had searched for a deeper understanding or simply turned away. It was a transformation of wonderful importance, and it fuelled an excitement that bubbled and pumped inside him.
    In the five days it had