The Vorrh

winter coat, next to his rapidly beating heart.
    Obedience had been bought or given that strange day, and with it a protection against the Limboia’s unconscious but pernicious influence: Maclish had become master of the workforce of the Vorrh. He had done it without violence or force, and the Timber Guild was amazed. Nobody knew how it had been achieved, but all who were engaged in the commerce of the forest talked about it, and he was marked as a man of consequence. It changed every aspect of his life and gave him the position of respect he had always desperately craved.
    It took the company doctor several days to return and collect the tiny body. He had been detained on the other side of the city, and apologised profusely for his tardiness in completing the prescribed task. They were walking through the scullery as they talked.
    ‘I haven’t told my wife that the child’s body is still here,’ Maclish said. ‘She assumed that ye took it with ye on that night.’
    ‘Oh, I see,’ the doctor said. ‘Well, I can only apologise again for placing you in such a position. I will take it with me now and spare you both any further upset.’
    Maclish thumbed the noisy metal latch of the pantry door and they both entered. From its shadowy seclusion at the back of the narrow room, he produced an old, circular biscuit tin. He opened it clumsily and offered the contents to the doctor who, with a flicker of hesitation, reached in and removed the bundle. There was an instant response. He frowned deeply and started to manipulate the cloth-bound form in his wise hands, taking it out of the room and placing it on a low table surrounded by cooking utensils. He unfolded the fabric gently to examine its contents.
    ‘I am very sorry to have to do this in your presence,’ he apologised, ‘but something here is not quite right.’
    Maclish was indifferent to the incident, but intrigued by the doctor’s response.
    ‘Extraordinary!’ muttered the practitioner, touching the tiny body on the table and examining it closely.
    ‘What is it?’ asked Maclish.
    ‘It has been three days since the child’s passing, and there is not the slightest trace of decomposition. It’s quite remarkable.’ He turned to the keeper in obvious awe, then remembered the nature of his visit and brought his excitement under scientific control. ‘I don’t want to sound callous, but would you permit me to conduct some slight tests before the burial?’
    ‘What, cutting?’ the startled father answered.
    ‘Not as such, no; more observation.’
    ‘The poor wee bairn has gone. Do what ye must. But not too long, mind! I don’t want my wife upset any more than is necessary.’
    The doctor agreed and gathered up his prize. As he left the house, an excited air graced his expression, one which had never before been seen about his usually dour countenance.
    It was a week before Dr. Hoffman again knocked at Maclish’s door, to be answered by the less-than-civil warden.
    ‘Where is my child?’ he demanded. ‘Why have ye kept him this long?’
    ‘I must apologise for the delay, but the fact is this is a most remarkable incident, I think unique.’
    Maclish looked at the pink, grinning face, screwed into its pinching, celluloid collar; at the pink, over-washed hands, restrained in their celluloid cuffs. White and pink, pink and white. He had heard rumours about this man, rumours that suggested his services, his skills and his oath could be bent at a price. Pink and white, white and pink.
    ‘Come in, man!’ he said sharply, his abruptness scratching a warning in the air between them. The doctor stepped hurriedly over the threshold and into the dim hallway.
    ‘The truth is,’ the doctor continued, turning to face the keeper, ‘your poor child has been untouched by the process of corruption: he is the same today as when he was born.’
    ‘Aye, dead!’ growled Maclish.
    ‘Well, yes, dead, of course. But perfect! In all my years as a physician I have never seen the like. Pray, please tell me, did anything unusual happen while I was away, between the birth and my retrieval of the remains?’
    Maclish did not like the question and asked one of his own. ‘How many have ye seen?’
    The doctor looked confused. ‘Born-dead bairns? Oh, perhaps thirty a year. It varies.’
    ‘And what normally happens to the bodies?’ asked the keeper.
    ‘Normally? They are buried within three days. I don’t usually keep them; as I said, this is a very unusual case. I