by B Catling
When they left the tower, they found light and the scent of woodsmoke in the attic. Mutter had found a window and opened it onto the rooftops. He had long since gone, driven away by their animal sounds, which had slid down from above to tantalise the recumbent wires.
They returned to the third floor. At the door of his dwelling, Ishmael held his hand out towards her. She reciprocated, touched by his gesture of affection. The instant their hands met, she knew she had made a mistake. His rigid fingers were eloquent in their distance.
‘No,’ he said, ‘the keys.’
Thus, the cyclops changed his status in the quiet house on Kühler Brunnen; the next episode of their life together had begun.
* * *
By the time the young Tsungali had returned from his trip abroad, the rumours about Oneofthewilliams had sped well beyond the borders of the True People and reached the coast. He had been horrified to learn, upon entering the village, that the chosen one was the same officer who had given him Uculipsa. The Englishman had shown him kindness and taught him to shoot well, had separated himself from the other whites and shown alliance to the True People almost from the moment he had arrived; he had risked the displeasure of his superiors and made himself an outcast by saving the great prize, the blessed young shaman, Irrinipeste, from the church, and from the abominations that the priest of crossed sticks had subjected her to. But still Tsungali had wondered if this man could be trusted, if he would arise against his own kind when it mattered most and help banish these lying intruders forever.
His deliberations had been short-lived. Minutes into his return, his homecoming was interrupted by the news that his brother and two of their friends were being held by one of the sea tribes, who demanded the return of the long-awaited Oneofthewilliams to the coast, where his own people eagerly awaited their messiah.
Tsungali had gone immediately to explain the situation to Williams. He told him of the kidnap and the meeting with the Sea People, and asked him to come with the rescue party, for his help in the parley; what he did not mention was that the Englishman was the prize, the desired barter that would ensure the safe release of his fellow tribesmen.
They met on the sands – jungle on one side, sea on the other; six of the Sea People holding the three hostages. Tsungali had brought five men to represent his tribe: three warriors, a policeman and, of course, Williams, who stood slightly to the side, motionless and cradling a small rucksack in his arms. He had taken off his boots and they hung around his neck by their laces, leaving his white feet bare in the wet, sucking sand. The hostages were tied together and knelt before their captors, each of whom were armed with spears and blades. The Enfield was not present. Instead, Tsungali carried a ceremonial spear with the colours of authority tied on: he was speaking for his people.
The leader of the Sea People barked out his terms, eloquently concluding by tapping the staff of his spear on the back of Tsungali’s brother’s head; the crouching man’s eyes darted back and forth between his bonds, his brother and the foreigner.
They were finalising the niceties of the exchange when Williams raised his hand and took a step forward. From inside his rucksack, he withdrew a small bundle and threw it between the two parties. He spoke ten words in the language of the True People, before pulling the monstrous pistol from his bag, stepping forwards and shooting Tsungali’s brother and the Sea People’s leader at point blank range. The wounds plumed in the dazzling fresh light, and the force threw the bodies back into the sand. Nobody moved. Williams picked up the barbed spear of the dead leader and walked over to Tsungali, taking the bound spear from his tight grip. He uttered two more words, then turned and paced back towards the camp, the sound of his feet matching the heartbeat of the stationary warriors.
The prisoners were untied from the dead man, who had thrashed against them and tightened their bonds as his blood darkened the beach. Nobody spoke, they just dispersed, going their own way towards jungle and seashore.
The bundle thrown between them had been a shamanistic truce of great potency; no man would argue with it. The fact that it was his proved the truth of what he said, as well as his purpose. His words had confirmed that he was indeed Oneofthewilliams: he had returned. But their betrayal and wrong actions meant that, from then on, he would belong to no one. Sacrifices would have to be made, to appease his anger and hold the tribes in constant balance.
Tsungali had guessed where the bundle had come from; who had made it, and given him the words. The whole incident had been overseen by a shaman; she had warned Williams and given him the power to triumph.
The tide had begun to turn inwards, water filling the impressions in the sand where he stood. He thought about her opal eyes watching him at that moment, thought of her astonishing eminence. She would be the key to the uprising; a key Williams had just turned.
Tsungali did not have anger or sadness. The bundle had smoothed it away; rightness had been performed. He picked up the pieces of his brother and returned home, where the wrath of his tribe was already boiling over.
In his wake, the sea came in and removed the blood. The brilliant red swirled with the yellow sand beneath the crystal green water. The bundle was lifted and carried out, far beyond the land, where it dissolved in the pulsing waves. When the sea retreated, and the endless sun turned the mud back into glittering powder, there would be no trace of the men, or the consequences of their actions.
The atmosphere in the camp was taut to snapping point. De Trafford was scarlet as 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 Frenchman’s bedroom after the brutality, so that he might drown and wallow in the true depth of his debasement. Countless times, she had been forced to haggle over the price of flesh. The currency of usury had become part of her vocabulary; she dealt with it efficiently and from a distance. Some small fold of her enjoyed talking to the exotic underclass about the most intimate actions of vice. She felt like an ornithologist, or an entomologist, viewing horrid little wonders through the wrong end of a perfect telescope. But she could not abide the blackmailers, those who went too far and allowed greed to ooze out with the secretions of their bodies. There had been many hushed-up cases, many insidious threats to expose his obsessions. She had brokered them all. Sometimes she was forced to enlist the support of the chauffeur, who liked to wrap metal chains around his fist when dealing with the stubborn.
‘Are you going alone with Seil Kor?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, in a theatrically disinterested way. ‘He is not to be one of my ‘paramours’,’ he added, a trace of the old acid leaking back into his speech. ‘He is a friend and noble person of these regions – I would very much like to introduce you.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, ‘I would like that. Don’t forget this.’ She handed him a tiny, delicate package of folded tissue paper containing the cheap, silver-plated crucifix that her first love had given to her at the age of thirteen.
On the steps of the hotel, the light was blinding. He wore his Eskimo spectacles and pith helmet, with a costume that needed at least fifteen native bearers to maintain it. Childlike, he gripped his suitcase and strained through the brightness to see his friend in the whirling, dusty clouds of passers-by. Charlotte stood beside him, arms folded and trepidation rising.
‘There!’ he cried. ‘By the tree, he is waving!’
She could barely distinguish a single figure, just a mass of activity in the luminous dust. The Frenchman stepped down the stairs and into the throng, motioning to Charlotte to join him, but the dust was unbearable, and she put her hand over her mouth, averting her face from the onslaught. He reached Seil Kor across the street and tried to explain about meeting Charlotte, but she was lost in the crowd and his guide was anxious to depart. He gave in to the unfolding events and they made their way out of the throng – their journey to the Vorrh had begun.
Seil Kor took the Frenchman to his home, far across town in the old quarter. From there to the station was only ten minutes’ walk, he promised.
‘Why do we go to your house first?’ he asked.
‘To change,’ Seil Kor said, without emphasis.
‘But this is my exploring costume,’ whined the Frenchman, who was beginning to be irritated by the modification of his plans.
‘Trust me, master, it is better for you to melt into the crowd, become one of us. This way you will see more, and get closer to the heart of the forest. We have to travel for a whole day on the train, and I want you to be comfortable.’
They walked down a high, mud-walled street that changed its curve every fifteen paces or so. Alleyways led off at frequent intervals, and there was a sense of a great populace concealed behind the twisting façade. They turned again, stepping into a long, straight street with two ancient, wooden doors set into its crumbling surface. Seil Kor hammered on the first door and, moments later, the second one opened.
They stepped into a broad, sand-coloured courtyard with a square well and a palm tree dominating its luxurious simplicity. A small, grinning boy stepped from behind the gate and closed them in. Seil Kor clapped his hands loudly above his head, and the doors of the low, long building that occupied one side of the enclosure opened. Vividly dressed women emerged carrying a carpet, a squat folding table and brass and copper bowls of fruit and sweetmeats. In a quick flurry, it was all set up under the shade of the tree, and the Frenchman was shown to the guest seat at its centre. The women brought piles of native robes and Arabic-style headgear for the dandy to try on. He liked this game, and once he got over his essential stiffness, became completely engaged in his transformation. He loved to dress up, and had often donned the national costume of the countries he had visited before. But it had never felt this real before, and his guide had never been so 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 continu
ed, 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 and temporary concealment.
