The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [597]
Turning to look at him she takes a corner at unnecessary speed, all but overturning the car.
‘Your driving is unique,’ says Anchor. ‘But I cannot say it gives me confidence. We will change places.’
Juno draws in to the side of the road. The car is like a swordfish. Beyond it the long erratic line of the amethyst-coloured mountains. The sky overhanging everything is cloudless save for a wisp way down in the far south.
‘How glad I am that you waited for me,’ says Juno. ‘All those long years in the cedar grove.’
‘Ah,’ says the Anchor.
‘You saved me from being a sentimental old bore. I can just see myself with my tear-stained face pressed against the window-panes … weeping for the days long gone. Thank you, Mr Anchor, for showing me the way. The past is over. My home is a memory. I will never see it again. For look, I have these sunbeams and these colours. A new life lies ahead.’
‘Do not expect too much,’ says the Anchor. ‘The sun can be snuffed without warning.’
‘I know, I know. Perhaps I am being too simple.’
‘No,’ says the Anchor. ‘That is hardly the word for an uprooting. Shall we go on?’
‘Let us stay a little longer. It is so lovely here. Then drive. Drive like the wind … into another country.’
There is a long silence. They are completely relaxed; their heads thrown back. Around them lies the coloured country. The golden cornfields; the amethyst mountains.
‘Anchor, my friend,’ says Juno in a whisper.
‘Yes, what is it?’
His face is in profile. Juno has never seen a face so completely relaxed, and without strain.
‘I am so happy,’ says Juno, ‘although there is so much to be sad about. It will take its turn, I suppose … the sadness. But now … in this very now. I am floating with love.’
‘Love?’
‘Love. Love for everything. Love for those purple hills; love for your rusty forelock.’
She sinks back against the cushions and closes her eyes, and as she does so the Anchor turns his lolling head in her direction. She is indeed handsome with a handsomeness beyond the scope of her wisdom. Majestic beyond the range of her knowledge.
‘The world goes by,’ says Juno, ‘and we go with it. Yet I feel young today; young in spite of everything. In spite of my mistakes. In spite of my age.’ She turns to the Anchor … ‘I’m over forty,’ she whispers. ‘Oh my dear friend, I’m over forty!’
‘So am I,’ says the Anchor.
‘What shall we do?’ says Juno. She clutches his forearm with her jewelled hands, and squeezes him.
‘There is nothing we can do, except live.’
‘Is that why you thought I should leave my home? My possessions? My memories? Everything? Is that why?’
‘I have told you so.’
‘Yes, yes. Tell me again.’
‘We are beginning. Incongruous as we are. You with your mellow beauty that out-glows a hundred damsels, and me with …’
‘With what?’
‘With a kind of happiness.’
Juno turns to him but she says nothing. The only movement comes from the black silk at her bosom where a great ruby rises and sinks like a buoy on a midnight bay.
At last Juno says, ‘The sunlight’s lovelier than it’s ever been, because we have decided to begin. We will pass the days together as they pass. But … Oh …’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Titus.’
‘What about him?’
‘He is gone. Gone. I disappointed him.’
The Anchor moving with a kind of slow, lazy deliberation takes his place at the wheel. But before the swordfish whips away he says …
‘I thought it was the future we were after.’
‘But O, but O, it is,’ cries Juno. ‘Oh my dear Anchor, it is indeed.’
‘Then let us catch it by its tail and fly!’
Juno, her face radiant, leans forward in the padded swordfish, and away they go, soundless save for the breath of their own speed.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
Shambling his way from the west, came Muzzlehatch. Once upon a time there was no shambling in his gait or in his mind. Now it was different. The arrogance was still there, redolent in every gesture, but added to it was something more bizarre. The rangy body was now a butt for boys to copy. His rangy mind played tricks with him. He moved as though oblivious