The Vorrh

gracious, so encouraging. He tried on many different styles and colours, spinning and giggling as the women and the boy applauded. He bowed. They all bubbled over in this pantomime of innocence. Carefree and conceited, he thought to add a dash to his apparel and dug the pistol out of his case, sticking it jauntily in his belt. The party froze. Seil Kor raised his hands and the women covered their eyes.
    ‘Master, what is this, why do you bring this?’ His bony finger shook as it pointed towards the gun. ‘Please, leave it in the bag. Where we go is sacred, such a thing is a blasphemy there.’
    ‘But, what about wild animals and those savage people?’ the Frenchman stuttered.
    ‘We will be walking with the Lord God; his angels will guard us.’
    He dropped the pistol back in the bag and stepped slowly away from it. Seil Kor met him with a grin, and he moved to his friend’s side, gripping his arm conciliatorily.
    ‘Oh! One moment,’ said the Frenchman. ‘I have something for you.’ He removed the little tissue-paper package from his person and carefully unwrapped it, holding the gleaming crucifix up for his new friend to admire.
    ‘For me?’ asked Seil Kor, genuinely surprised.
    The Frenchman nodded and handed him the chain; he fixed it at once around his neck. The cross shone brightly against Seil Kor’s jet-black skin and the others applauded the gift all the way to the door as they prepared to depart. By the time they crossed the threshold, the Frenchman was unrecognisable. He was happy and very at ease in his flowing robes. A prince of the desert, he thought – if only he had a photograph for his collection. He resolved to have one taken on their return, on the steps of the hotel, when he and Seil Kor would present themselves to Mademoiselle Charlotte, in celebration of their triumphant expedition.
    * * *

    Everything in the house was changing. All of the rituals, hierarchies and conventions were sliding over each other to find new settling places; Ishmael moved freely between the third floor and the attic, and the camera obscura had become a focal point for them all, even Ghertrude. Mutter’s collection of the crates was the only thing that continued, unchanged, twice a week.
    Through Ishmael’s constant use, the spaces were becoming his own, his domain. Each place had its own sound, and Ghertrude and Mutter were able to track his movements from any part of the house. He could often be heard pacing and moving about in his rooms, rearranging furniture and adjusting the layout. In the attic, the strings would sing his presence, often for hours at a time. It was no longer an access space; he was making it important in its own right.
    The tower of the obscura was marked by silence, quieter than sleep itself when he was there. His commitment held the house still, lifting it up by its scruff, so that it could be felt in its roots. But that was the one place he did not go: where she most feared he would be drawn to, where he might betray her more easily. She left nothing to chance, and had Mutter double-check the padlocks and barriers to the cellars almost daily. She told him clearly that it was forbidden to all, and that was the only rule of the house. He did not answer, but nodded in intelligent approval. Even so, she instructed Mutter to keep an eye on him, and the cellar door.
    The old servant did not care much for the changes. He liked things in their places, with clear delineations between them. Being in the house now made him uncomfortable. He did not know when or where the cyclops might turn up, and he was still a little startled by his appearance. Furthermore, Ishmael was becoming more familiar: he sought interaction, asking him questions about his employment, his family, the outside world. Mutter had never been a great conversationalist, and with this weird creature he found it easier to scurry away or hide in the yard, with the horses. He enjoyed their dumbness; the rich smell of their bodies and the perfume of the hay soothed him, and he would often take his lunch out to where they grazed. He smoked his bitter cigars in their mute company and watched the seasons turn, unhurried, and mostly safe. Sometimes, he felt keenly that he was being watched from above. He imagined his likeness, smeared on the circular table of that ungodly machine, the gloating eye tasting it like some terrible fish. The idea chilled him, and made him move further back into the stable, reassured by its shared warmth