The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [246]
This was the Raftmen’s cue, and clambering over the side they placed the necklace of snails around the little wet neck, and as the voice from the shore cried, ‘Now!’ attempted to place in Titus’ hands the stone and the ivy branch.
But he would not hold them.
‘Hell’s blood and gallstones!’ screamed Barquentine, ‘what’s the matter? Rot your hides! what’s the matter? Give him his stone and ivy, curse you!’
They opened his little fingers with difficulty and placed the symbols against his palms, but he snatched his hands away from them. He would not hold the things.
Barquentine was beside himself. It was as though the child had a mind of its own. He smote the stage with his crutch and spat with fury. There was not one, either, among the dripping trees or along the strip of bubbling sand – not one whose eyes were not fixed on Titus.
The men on the raft were helpless.
‘Fools! fools! fools!’ came the hideous voice through the rain. ‘Leave them at his feet, curse your black guts! Leave them at his feet! Oh, body of me, take your damned heads away!’
The two men slipped back into the water, cursing the old man. They had left the stone and the ivy branch on the raft at the child’s feet.
Barquentine knew that the Earling was to be completed by noon: it was decreed in the old tomes and was Law. There was barely a minute to go.
He swung his bearded head to left and right. ‘Your Ladyship, the Countess Gertrude of Gormenghast! Your Ladyship Fuchsia of Gormenghast! Their Ladyships Cora and Clarice Groan of Gormenghast! Arise!’
Barquentine crutched himself forward on the slippery stage until he was within a few inches of the edge. There was no time to lose.
‘Gormenghast will now watch! And listen! It is the Moment!’
He cleared his throat and began and could not stop, for there was no time left. But as he cried the traditional words, his fingernails were splintering into the oakwood of his crutch and his face had become purple. The huge beads of sweat on his brow were lilac, for the colour of his congested head burned through them.
‘In the sight of all! In the sight of the Castle’s Southern wing, in the sight of Gormenghast Mountain, and in the sacred sight of your forefathers of the Blood, I, Warden of the immemorial Rites proclaim you, on this day of Earling, to be the Earl, the only legitimate Earl between heaven and earth, from skyline to skyline – Titus, the Seventy-seventh Lord of Gormenghast.’
A hush most terrible and unearthly had spread and settled over the lake, over the wood and towers and over the world. Stillness had come like a shock, and now that the shock was dying, only the white emptiness of silence remained. For while the concluding words were being cried in a black anger, two things had occurred. The rain had ceased and Titus had sunk to his knees and had begun to crawl to the raft’s edge with a stone in one hand and an ivy branch in the other. And then, to the horror of all, had dropped the sacrosanct symbols into the depths of the lake.
In the brittle, pricking silence that followed, a section of delicate blue sky broke free from the murk of the clouds above him, and he rose to his feet and, turning to the dark multitude of the Dwellers, approached in little careful paces to the edge of the raft that faced the side of the lake where they were gathered. His back was turned to Barquentine, to the Countess his mother, and to all who stared transfixed at the only moving thing in the porcelain silence.
Had a branch broken in any one of the thousand trees that surrounded the water, or had a cone fallen from a pine, the excruciating tension would have snapped. Not a branch broke. Not a cone fell.
In the arms of the woman by the shore the strange child she held began to struggle with a strength that she could not understand. It had reached outward from her breast, outward, over the