The Vorrh

pounded with glee.
    She pulled the cloth from the disc to expose its subtle curve. Reaching up, she drew the lever down, while holding the thick, brass knob at the end of the rod. A panel in the ceiling slid open, sending dappled light onto the table. She turned the knob and the juddering blurs cohered into an image of the city below. Mutter was leaning on the white surface when a horse and carriage crossed the back of his hand. He pulled away, as if stung.
    ‘It’s alright, Sigmund,’ she said. ‘It’s just a picture.’
    She twisted the knob and the city span and turned under her control. Continually adjusting the lever and the rod, she selected and focused on the distant life at her will. She trawled the contours of the horizon and the black shadow of the Vorrh, before focusing tightly on the cathedral door. Marvelling at her perfect detachment, she caught all the faces of those who passed through the great door, their purpose and activity reduced and smeared across the white dish for her inspection and delight.
    It was then that she saw another potential rise up from the milky whiteness: this camera obscura could be the solution to the cyclops’ discontent. From here, he could view the city at a safe distance, saturating his curiosity in its shifting image. She decided to make a surprise of it and bring him up to the attic room without telling him why.
    On the morning of the street market in the town square, she dressed him in warm clothes, unlocked the doors and led him through the house. He had not been outside his rooms since the traumatic day of Ghertrude’s arrival and the Kin’s demise. He looked at everything and marvelled at the shrinkage which had occurred, relative to his own growth. Mutter led the way up into the attic, as Ishmael, then Ghertrude, followed behind. They stepped into the singing room and she caught his hand in a gentle camouflage of restraint. Against their expectations, he recognised the contrivance in the room instantly.
    ‘How wonderful,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s a Goedhart Device.’
    Mutter and Ghertrude were stunned. ‘A what?’ she said.
    ‘A Goedhart Device, one of the rare and unique instruments of Joanhus Goedhart.’
    At the word ‘Goedhart’, the floor chimed with a deeper and more significant resonance. He pulled away to examine the strings. Ghertrude felt an irrational anger begin to grow inside her.
    ‘Let’s go to the door,’ she said, setting off quickly across the room, with Mutter following closely. But Ishmael could not be rushed and made his way slowly towards them, delighting in the wires and their reaction when he murmured into them. He touched them all, pulling at the cords attached to the roof, stroking the feathers and feeling the weight of the metal balls with an increasing pleasure.
    ‘We have not come to see these things,’ Ghertrude snapped, sensing the importance of her gift was being diluted by the inconsequential and irrelevant intrusions and his understanding of them. He left his enquiries reluctantly and caught them up, strumming five of the strings in a discordant slash en route. They climbed into the dark, octagonal chamber and stood around the circular table. She grabbed the controls and, with a dramatic flourish, twisted the projector into life. The narrow parting in the roof sprang open and the market jumped onto the table, shimmering with activity, colour and bustle. Mutter, sensing the growing emotion, moved back down the stairwell to search in the attic for a window or an opening.
    Ghertrude watched the cyclops. He stood very still, slightly bent over the table. His eye was enormous, starting from his head. He was pale, a greasy film of perspiration on his skin reflecting the light of the scene below. Suddenly, her body reinstated the revulsion she had felt when she had first seen him; that moment seemed decades away now. Their intimacy and her growing feelings for him had made his face normal: wonder and secrecy had repaired his learned abnormalities, while familiarity and desire had stitched up their differences.
    She was overpowered by the shock of the old feeling, especially as they stood together, in a moment which could turn in any direction. Had she made a mistake in bringing him here? Why did he look so? A tear splashed onto the glowing disc, briefly creating another tiny lens. He made an indecipherable sound, deep in his chest. She thought, at first, that it was a composite of longing, but as it slid over her array