The Vorrh

and set in a far corner of the chapel, away from any source of light, it was made on the same dense, gessoed wood, but something had obviously gone wrong with its process, for the pigmentation of varnish had turned black. He drew closer to examine it; it was as if the picture was empty, or only contained painted night. He put his fingertips on its crusted surface, discerning a raised outline, the contours of a head, the painting’s swallowed occupant invisible in the tarry depth.
    ‘What is this one?’ he asked of his guide.
    The young man looked bashful and evasive, and refused to look directly at the block of darkness.
    ‘What is this one? Please tell me.’
    ‘Some of the stories from the Vorrh are older than man and they become confused with the Bible,’ replied Seil Kor. ‘I think this is one of those. It is said that a being will come to protect the tree, after all the sons of Adam are dead. He is called the Black Faced Man. This might be him.’
    The Frenchman looked closer at the picture. As he did, Seil Kor turned away, saying that he thought they would need a complete day to discuss the Vorrh’s entrance, and that this day had been sidestepped to catch a different knowledge. It was the way of life, to scent the direction of the breeze or a man’s falling. That day had been about the chapel and their place in the wheel of time. He noisily picked up the Frenchman’s cane from one of the pews and gave it to him – it was warm and light. A whisk of dust swirled from its tip, looking like smoke in the shafting rays of the afternoon that waited outside. They never spoke about the tablet of darkness again.

* * *

    The woman’s voice boomed in a sluggish yowl. It was hideous, but human, and he recognised something of himself in it. She was the first of her kind he had ever seen or heard, and she was a monster – oversized, with a face that made him retch repeatedly. The shock of being alone with this creature chilled his bones.
    Misinterpreting his disgust as fear, Ghertrude tried to say something kind to the imprisoned child, something that would tell him she meant him no harm. She was practising kindness and the novelty made her feel righteous, in the purest sense she had ever known.
    She spent a long time almost motionless, speaking softly to demonstrate her distance and restraint. Ishmael began to look at her less warily, moving his hand away from his protected eye and gradually standing up in his bed. She saw that he was not a child, but a stunted adolescent, diminished and grossly deformed, but very human.
    High above, the sun had risen in the tangled garden, shooing off the clinging mist and unveiling a bright blue sky. Its radiance dazzled the kitchen, sending thick, curling rays that shafted through the basement windows. Without breeze or any other movement, dust was lifted up into its magnitude to be exalted in the stillness. The room sang to itself and rejoiced in its unoccupied beauty, as all rooms do when left for such long periods of time: untainted by even the slightest trace of rearrangement or the hectic purpose of humans, their invention and design become their own once more.
    Ghertrude had cautiously begun to cross the room to make contact with the youth; hands and arms wide, the crowbar left behind, she felt possession flood her future and justify her present. She moved slowly past the leaning remains of Abel, but her caution was not enough to stop him toppling over, spilling the remnants of his fluid in a noisy pool. It triggered an unexpected rage in Ishmael which leaked into every part of his fear. They had left him. Luluwa had abandoned him without a word. The Kin had failed to defend him – all the care of their work and time together had, in the end, meant nothing to them. He looked at the broken Bakelite body, slumped stiff and clumsy in its milky puddle. Abel’s lifeless head lay on the other side of the room, but the memories of their conversations had already begun to elude him. His confusion and anger were meeting at a crossroads, and the shadow of this giant woman was waiting there to greet him.
    She had quickly become accustomed to the pained squint of the shrunken adolescent, feeling a surge of protection towards him which was an innovation and added sanctity to her confusion. She had never experienced such emotions as when she touched Ishmael, but he shrank back from her contact – its softness was without meaning, and queasy. He pulled the light blue bed sheet