The Vorrh

expression could be perceived; his eyes radiated grace. Grace was holding him up, tottering on the sanguine earth. The young man said nothing, but extended a long, thin arm, shivering with bangles, towards the shade of a low building. The Frenchman leant into the grip of the other and allowed himself to be guided forward. Without speaking, they walked into the shade of a pungent bar, where they sat and drank mint tea and tried to talk. The young man started by introducing himself, explaining that, despite his rags, he was of noble blood.
    ‘I will call you Seil Kor,’ the Frenchman announced.
    ‘But that is not my name, Master.’
    ‘That does not matter. Seil Kor was a great hero and I know his name well. For this adventure, you shall be he.’
    The young man had frowned at this strange way, but accepted his play name to make the little man more comfortable. The conversation became more serious, and when the Frenchman declared he would traverse the entire forest, the space between their knowledge and understanding broadened and split.
    Seil Kor turned his gaze away from his new companion and looked out towards the horizon. ‘Thou canst walk to the derelicts of the saints,’ he said with firmness and distance, ‘but no further. More is forbidden. From there is barred, you must turn away. No son of Adam is allowed, for God walks there.’
    The Frenchman’s sense of intrigue and challenge was ignited by such bold and ultimate statements. ‘The gods and monsters that live there must be more savage at the centre,’ he smirked.
    At this, Seil Kor’s countenance gained an expressive patience, and he turned to stare back into the conversation, while making a gesture over his heart. ‘Not gods of old people,’ he said gently. ‘The one God. Your God; my God; Yahweh. The great Father who made all things and gave Adam a corner of his clearing, so that he may dwell in it and grow. He walks there. It is His garden on earth. Paradise.’
    A sudden silence opened around them.
    ‘Seil Kor, my friend, are you telling me that the Garden of Eden is located in the Vorrh?’
    ‘Yes, it is so. But Eden is only a corner of God’s garden; the rest of the clearing is where God walks, to think in worldly ways. It is impossible in heaven, where all things are the same, without form or colour, temperature or change. In His worldly garden, He wears a gown of senses, woven in our time. He lets rocks and stones, wind and water, clothe His invisible ideas. He pictures our life in the matter that makes us.’
    The Frenchman was shocked and moved by such faith, and by the clarity which bound it. Delaying his cynicism, he tried desperately to shape his next question outside of his normal patronising indifference. ‘How do you know this?’ he asked.
    Seil Kor was confused by the question. Could his companion really be so obtuse? ‘Because he has told us,’ he replied.
    Any further questioning the Frenchman may have been tempted towards had been silenced. They parted ways, agreeing to meet the next morning and begin their journey to the lip of the Vorrh.
    He returned to his servants and found their hotel, solidly located at the centre of the city, on sturdy roads where all dust was banished. That night, the Frenchman had hardly spoken to Charlotte. Lying on his bed, listening to the moonlit sounds outside, he had prayed for sleep. He wanted to dream in biblical weight and in the brightness of a lush garden, untenanted by man for thousands of years. But the dreams that awaited him were without pity, and had the predatory grace of a jackal.
    * * *

    The quietness of the house thrilled her, heightening her expectations and making tiptoeing from room to room all the more delicious. She opened doors slowly against her discovery, moving with a certitude that caressed the moment. Searching in the complete freedom of night only served to increase her pleasure.
    Some years before, she had read ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ in its third impression, taking in Poe’s description of cunning, and standing alongside as his protagonist crept in to watch the victim sleeping. She had marvelled at his ability to describe such a contained act of evil against the common, dull speed of life; how he had known the precision of stealth, and could put into words the silent, skilful malice. The modern American author’s little story had moved her and given her hope. Even though it had almost been spoilt by a suggestion of mania, she knew that he truly