Doctor Who_ Lungbarrow - Marc Platt [42]
For a moment, the Drudge was distracted by the growing numbers of waxy, fungal growths that had sprouted from the damp walls. Manifestations of neglect were spreading through the appointments of the House. Orderliness would have to be restored and imposed.
The intruder had forced the lock and swung the iron gate open.
Beyond the gate, the north atrium lay in darkness. The stranger lifted a lamp from the wall and, holding it high, made his way into the darkness.
As the Drudge reached the gate, there was an exclamation and a small splash as the intruder discovered that the atrium was flooded.
The pool of lamplight reflected on the water in which he was standing. It threw huge ripples of light up across the atrium's ceiling. He waded deeper, clinging along the wall, his fingers groping at the carved wooden panels, searching for something. Ahead, a row of coracles bobbed and clunked on the black water.
At a signal from the Drudge, a section of the ceiling further back towards the gate opened silently. A carved bracket descended through the gap. From it hung a looking glass shaped like an eye. The glass swivelled to catch the perpetrator of this encroachment.
***
Mirror by mirror, the image was thrown and caught, one to another, up and along the covert belvedere arteries of the House. At last the urgently reflected revelation came to rest on the glass of a dressing-table mirror. Opposite the mirror, sat a figure in an ancient rocking chair, dozing beneath a veil of dusty cobweb.
Whisper softly.
No one would dare
To waken the old one
From her rocking chair.
A host of whispering voices in the air. The intruder in the atrium heard them too, for he stared round in alarm. Then he rapped one of the wal panels and it swung open, almost eagerly, as if it recognised the signal, to reveal a smal cupboard.
The Drudge sent an angry reprimand to the errant cupboard and the ashamed panel tried to close itself. But the stranger held it forcibly open and extracted several items which he slipped into his pockets. The ceiling mirror reflected into the Drudge's thoughts as well. Through the glass, it could make out a number of small metal spheres and a triple-stemmed object that its long and house-proud memory recalled with irritation to be a catapult: the plaything of younger disorderly Cousins. The result of its assault could mean intricate repair work to the Drudge's wooden skirts, overlaid by coats of fresh varnish.
From over the dark water came a growl and a heavy splash.
The stranger hurriedly started to wade his way out of the flooded atrium. He faltered as he saw the mirror bracket ahead of him. He quickly slipped the catapult from his pocket, loaded one of the metal spheres and let fly at the mirror. The glass smashed.
As the bracket retreated into the ceiling, its broken pivot spinning wildly, the Drudge heard the stranger mutter,
'Seven lives' bad luck.'
The Drudge withdrew into the shadow. It waited for him to pass the gate and then ordered the lamps to light.
The passage was immediately diffused with a golden glow. The intruder saw the Drudge immediately and raised the catapult in warning. As it advanced, he loosed a metal ball, which pinged off the Drudge's shoulder leaving an unsightly abrasion.
He darted for cover, but the gate slammed against him. The Drudge saw him take aim at a large fungus puffball grown from the wainscot. 'Happy landings,' he called.
The catapult twanged and the fungus exploded in a cloud of white powdery spores which caught the Drudge full in the face.
Dust, its bitterest enemy; loathsome, unending scourge of any House, it choked the servant's vision. The Drudge flailed out its carved arms, its wooden shape crunching blindly against the walls.
It heard its persecutor dodging past. It collided with something it could not see and toppled to the ground.
56
'Happy landings mean a happy House,' called the voice as the stranger scurried away like an escaped tafelshrew.
The Drudge lay uselessly prone, waving its arms like an overturned beetle, too rigid to right itself.