The Vorrh

One of his fingers was moving on her, caressing and opening her bliss. No: this could not be. His hand was inside her, groping upwards. She pushed out, the other hand holding her leg down. Her cry woke her into a panic, though the old house was empty. She was alone, but his hand was in her womb, grabbing at the foetus, trying to squeeze the life out of it and pull it from its safety. She felt his other hand enter her and almost fainted, ready to burst with fear. Her shouts echoed through the house, from the hollow well in the cellar to the attic, where it strummed against the long, taut wires and bounced in the white hollow of the obscura’s table. She felt the doctor’s ring dig into her bone as his fat, pink finger rotated. Her final scream pulled her from the layers of nightmare and into the dim, pre-dawn haze of her room.
    She was wringing wet and brutally cold. The bedroom had not quite settled into reality and she feared that Hoffman still lingered nearby: maybe under the bed, or behind the weighty curtains. She breathed heavily, not daring to detach herself from the safety of the damp sheets, and waited for the morning to release her again from another night of blind, vengeful terror.
    * * *

    Cyrena and Ishmael had not stepped outside the house for almost a week. The world beyond the mansion’s walls had dissolved in its own continuum of noise and bustle. They never left each other, talking and touching and succumbing to their courtship through all the hours of the day and night. Even the division of light and dark held no meaning for them: the richness of their realm was more than all else.
    The servants ferried food and drink and kept out of their way. So powerful was their love in the house that it evaporated all gossip and below-stairs speculation. The staff just grinned knowingly, shrugged their shoulders and grinned again.
    The bow lay neglected in the hall; Ishmael no longer moved it with him from room to room. Occasionally it would fall in the night, clattering noisily against obscure items and leaving unpleasant odours and resistant stains. Eventually, he placed it as far from the heart of the house as the walls allowed, resting it in the small porch that joined the garden to the cellar. The servants were warned not to disturb it under any circumstances. It was a somewhat unnecessary order: the long, black bundle was loathsome to all.
    Under a nearby bush, Tsungali’s ghost dozed peacefully. His grandfather had caught up with him a few days after he arrived. He had decided to wait with him for their business to be concluded, so they might travel together into the awaiting worlds. Tsungali slept to conserve the strength of what was left of him. His grandfather kept a wary eye on the bow while he dozed.
    The arrival of the letter dislodged the peace of the house. Its sharp, white envelope was like a porcelain blade. It was from Ghertrude.

My dear friend
,

Have you forsaken me? Please tell me what I have done to cause your silence? I felt such relief at your support in this strange, incomprehensible time; I cannot begin to express my despair at your absence
.

I am so alone. Nobody comes. I only ever see Mutter, and I cannot speak to him
–
his smile unnerves me, it is more than I can tolerate at this moment
.

The house has never been so empty. I am racked by nightmares, which I think might be omens; the evil spirit of the doctor comes to steal the life from within me and I wake in terror every night. Please, if I have not offended you in some unknown way, come to me soon. I need your strength and friendship to see me through these desperate times
.

Yours always
,

Ghertrude
    Cyrena was mortified. She had not considered Ghertrude’s needs for days, even though she and Ishmael had talked about her frequently with warmth and care; she had to go to her friend at once. She called Ishmael and showed him the letter.
    ‘What is the significance of this doctor?’ he asked.
    She shut her eyes to the answer that tangled in her throat. There was so much to explain, and so much more to forget.
    ‘He was one of the men we paid to find you. He was a vile man, corrupt and dangerous.’
    ‘Where is he now?’
    ‘He disappeared,’ she lied, ‘ran off somewhere with the other vermin who tricked us.’
    Ishmael was content and asked no more questions, letting her rush about as she dressed for the first time in days.
    ‘I don’t know how long I will be,’ she said at the door.
    ‘I am coming with