The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [613]
‘I heard the laughter too,’ said another voice. ‘But he was asleep.’
‘Yes,’ said another. ‘Asleep in the throne.’
‘What? Titus Groan, Lord of the Tracts, and heir to Gormenghast?’
‘The same. A heavy sleeper!’
‘See how he stares at us!’
‘He is bewildered.’
‘He needs his mother!’
‘Of course, of course!’
‘How lucky he is!’
‘Why so?
‘Because she’s on her way.’
‘Red hair, white cats, ’n all?’
‘Exactly.’
Cheeta, furious, had had to change her plans. Just as she was about to bring on the phantoms, and by so doing, derange once and for all the boy’s bewildered mind.
And so, with a sweet smile to those at her side, she began again to create an atmosphere most conducive to madness.
It was at this moment that, without knowing what he was doing, he picked up the flimsy throne with both hands and dashed it to the ground. The silence was palpable.
At last there came a voice. It was not hers.
‘He came to us when he was lost, poor child. Lost, or so he thought. But he was no more lost than a homester on the wing. He searches for his home but he has never left it, for this is Gormenghast. It is all about him.’
‘No!’ cried Titus. ‘No!’
‘See how he cries. He is upset, poor thing. He does not realize how much we love him.’
A hundred voices, like an incantation, repeated the words … ‘how much we love him.’
‘He thinks that to move about is to change places. He does not realize that he is treading water.’
And the voices echoed … ‘treading water.’
Then Cheeta’s voice again.
‘Yet this is our farewell. A farewell from his old self to his new. How splendid! To tear one’s throne up by the roots, and fling it to the floor. What was it after all but a symbol? We have too many symbols. We wade in symbols. We are sick of them. It is a pity about your brain.’
Titus wheeled upon her. ‘My brain,’ he cried, ‘what’s wrong with my brain?’
‘It is on the turn,’ said Cheeta.
‘Yes, yes,’ came the chorus from the shadows. ‘That’s what has happened. His brain is on the turn!’
And then the authoritative voice rose again beyond the juniper fire.
‘His head is no longer anything but an emblem. His heart is a cypher. He is a mere token. But we love him, don’t we?’
‘Oh yes, we love him, don’t we?’ came the chorus.
‘But he’s so confused. He thinks he’s lost his home.’
‘… and his sister, Fuchsia.’
‘… and the Doctor.’
‘… and his mother.’
At this moment, hard upon the mention of his mother’s name, Titus, turning a deathly colour, sprang outward from the debris.
ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
It might have been Cheeta: but it was not. She had made a sign, and in making it she had moved back a little to obtain a clearer view of the entrance to the forgotten room. Who it was that suffered the agonizing jab in the region of the heart will never be known; but that ornate gentleman collapsed upon the pave-stones of the aisle receiving, as though he were a scapegoat, the fury which Titus, at that moment, would gladly have meted out to all.
Panting, the sweat glistening on his face he suddenly found himself gripped by the elbow. Two men, one on either side, held him. Struggling to free himself he saw, as though through the haze of his anger, that they were the same tall, smooth, ubiquitous helmeted figures who had trailed him for so long.
They backed him up the steps to where the throne once stood, when suddenly, as he struggled and tossed his head, he saw for an instant something in the corner of his eye that caused his heart to stop beating. The helmeted figures loosened their grip upon his arms.
ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
Something was emerging from the forgotten room. Something of great bulk and swathing. It moved with exaggerated grandeur, trailing a length of dusty, moth-eaten fustian, and over all else was spattered the constellations of ubiquitous bird-lime. The shoulders of her once black gown were like white mounds, and upon these mounds were perched every kind of bird. As for the phantom’s hair (a most unnatural red), even this was a perch for little birds.
As the