The Vorrh

pay.’
    ‘Are you sure we are talking about the same person?’ questioned Ghertrude, clutching at straws and finding it impossible to conceive of any situation where the unlikely pair may have met.
    ‘I do hope so,’ said Cyrena. She described the costume without ever having seen it. She described it well, and Ghertrude’s blush turned to an anxious pale. Cyrena saw the truth behind her blanching and knew her game had been cornered.
    ‘His name is Ishmael,’ Ghertrude said reluctantly. ‘He was my friend; he lived in this house.’
    ‘Lived?’ repeated Cyrena. ‘Where is he now?’
    ‘He left weeks ago, I don’t know where for,’ she lied.
    The older woman stood abruptly, obviously agitated. Ghertrude approached her and touched her shivering arm.
    ‘Why do you need to find him?’ she asked.
    The unwavering eyes locked on hers with an indescribable eeriness.
    ‘It was he who gave me my sight,’ she said.
    The sharp, rank electricity stung her nose and slapped her brain. She instinctively tried to push the glass bottle away from her airway, but Cyrena held it there firmly until the smelling salts had proved to work. Ghertrude gasped for breath as the older woman held her firmly in the upright chair, one hand on Ghertrude’s forehead and her other arm hugging the woozy younger lady across her back.
    ‘It’s all right, my dear, you have only fainted,’ she said.
    The nauseous zebra vision ceased and Ghertrude bounced back to the dazed reality of Cyrena’s revelation. ‘Ishmael did that,’ she whispered. ‘But how?’
    Reseating herself at the table, Cyrena began to explain the situation of that amazing night. She explained it frankly, and perhaps with too much detail. This time, they both blushed but she continued with the extraordinary story, and Ghertrude’s mind slowly accustomed itself to the depth of Ishmael’s festive experiences. As Cyrena related the exquisite interactions of their encounter, Ghertrude began to realise the terrible truth of the event, the one feature that couldn’t have been exchanged by their actions alone. She wished she could undo her involvement, but it was too late; nothing should be held back now. There was no place for deception or half-truths between them.
    ‘Did…’ Ghertrude hesitated, throwing a sidelong glance at her new friend. ‘I only wondered… did you never see his face?’
    The younger woman took charge of the smelling salts. Cyrena had not fainted, but the news had sent her reeling back, like a short, sharp punch to the chest.
    ‘You mean he was born with only one eye?’ she gaped.
    ‘Yes. It is here, in the centre of his face.’ Ghertrude pointed to the area just above her nose. ‘It takes time,’ she said gently, ‘but you get used to it. After a while, you only see him.’
    ‘But, there was no sign that he was so deformed; I had no idea! The mask, the mask… it… he felt normal!’ Cyrena ran out of words as she remembered the events of that night and struggled to hold back tears.
    ‘He is not like us,’ Ghertrude said, shaking her head. ‘Not like us at all.’
    The day passed. Ghertrude fetched a bottle of Madeira and two glasses. They sat by a window as they drank, watching the sun set over the Vorrh. She told the stranger, fast becoming a friend, much about their life together in 4 Kühler Brunnen, but not about the beginning. Though she ached to tell somebody of the abnormalities in the basement, to share that impossible truth, she knew that, without any evidence, she would sound deranged, incredible. Who would ever believe such a story? She looked at Cyrena: might it be her? Might this strong, clever woman, who made her feel child-like again and curiously protected, be understanding of such a tale?
    ‘I must still find him,’ Cyrena was saying. ‘Whatever he is, wherever he has gone, he has changed my life completely.’
    Ghertrude sighed and let the last crumbs of denial fall to the kitchen floor. ‘He said he was going to the Vorrh,’ she declared. It sounded like a pact.
    * * *

    The Bowman and Paulus were entering fast-running shallows at a place where the land rose up out of the thin water in broken blades of stone, vertical, resolute and overwhelming. They stepped out of the boat into three feet of water, wading the vessel aground on a long shingle beach and letting its weight wallow into the glinting pebbles. The Bowman walked up onto firmer land and looked about him: he had been here before. The gravity of