The Vorrh

he spat abuse into Williams’ face in front of the entire company. They were standing in uniform, a small, tidy, geometric rank, before the fidgeting avalanche of True People, a momentum seething with rage and betrayal. They had been thinking and sleeping on all the wrongs Tsungali had described to them, the duplicity and the evil of all these whites. All except one.
    The commanding officer tightened their insistence with each pompous word. Just before the snapping point, a quiet movement slid from the centre of the clutching warriors, slipping softly between the stiff uniforms as they secretly revelled in Williams’ humiliation.
    She drifted next to the accused like a vapour and touched his hand. He looked down at the beloved shaman and into her impossible eyes. De Trafford raged above them, and then saw their indifference. He stumbled down from his small pedestal and snatched at the girl. Grabbing at her throat, he tried to pull her aside, but it was like yanking on a granite column: nothing moved, and his fingers screamed. He snatched at her but fell to the floor, still barking his orders, with only her torn amulet and part of her dress in his hands. His raging never ceased. He barked orders from the dirt; he barked orders as he scrambled to his feet. He was still barking orders when the .303 round from the Enfield burned through his ribcage and skewered his loud, bulging heart. Chaos ensued.
    She guided Oneofthewilliams past the clashing wave of hacking men and out; out of the beginnings of the Possession Wars and into the Vorrh to heal the wounds of yesterday, today and tomorrow.
    * * *

    Charlotte smelt the coffee when she awoke; indeed, it might have been its bitter warmth which quaffed her dreams. She slipped on a yellow robe and opened the door to the Frenchman’s room; he was already awake, and seated at the breakfast table. He had never been known to stir before noon. Slightly unsettled, she joined him at the table, an empty cup in her hesitant hand, her eyes never leaving his excited expression. He smiled.
    ‘A beautiful morning, Charlotte!’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, noticing for the first time that thick shafts of light divided the room, motes of dust swimming expressively in their beams, giving the simultaneous impressions of animation and stillness.
    ‘Did I tell you last night that today I go to the Vorrh?’ he asked. ‘Seil Kor is coming for me this morning.’ It was the first time he had used his new friend’s name; previously, he had referred to him as a ‘native’, a ‘black’, or, on occasion, as his ‘black prince’.
    She was unmoved by the name, and unsurprised he had endowed his young guide with the same moniker as a character from his
Impressions of Africa
. She had never seriously undertaken to read any of his books, poems or essays; only the letters he addressed to her. It was not part of her duties. She knew that it would ruin their relationship to hold an opinion on his works: she was merely a woman, and they both preferred it that way. However, she had once flipped through the pages of the African Book. She had found it confused and obscure. No doubt it was art, for she knew him to be a man of dangerous appetites and total selfishness. That was what made the smiling man before her such a disconcerting sight.
    ‘I have packed my bag for a three-day expedition,’ he said.
    Her shock at discovering that he knew where the luggage was kept was augmented by the revelation that he was capable of packing it. ‘I shall take the Smith & Wesson, the one with the pearl grips, and leave you the Colt, the Mannlicher and the Cloverleaf, for your protection. May I borrow your Derringer for my little journey?’
    ‘Why, of course,’ she replied, ‘anything you wish.’
    They always travelled with a small armoury, ostensibly for the pleasure of target shooting, but always with the excuse of protection. He was an excellent shot, and had enjoyed teaching her how to handle and fire his collection of pistols. The guns also gave her some confidence against the ‘street visitors’ he often brought home or sent the chauffeur to find. His taste ran hard into the criminal and the lower manual labourer. They were easy to find and would fulfil all of his sexual morbidities, but they were tricky to get rid of afterwards, difficult to scrape off the shoe. Countless times, she had returned home to find some half-naked urchin or dockyard worker going through her belongings, ejected from the