The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [623]
She returned her gaze to Titus.
‘I hate you!’ she cried. ‘I hate all that you think you are. I hate your Gormenghast. I will always hate it. If it were true I’d hate it even more. I’m glad your neck is bleeding. You beast! Bloody beast!’
She turned and ran from them crying out words that none of them could understand … ran like a shred of darkness; ran and ran; until only those with the keenest sight could see her as she fled into the deep shadows of the most easterly of the forests. But though she was soon too far away for even the best of eyes, yet her voice carried all the way, until only a far, thin screaming could be heard, and after that no more.
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN
Muzzlehatch turned his great hewn face to the sky.
‘Come here Titus. I am suddenly remembering you. What’s the matter? Do you always go round with blood all over you, like a butcher’s shop?’
‘Leave him alone, Muzzle dear. He’s very sick indeed,’ said Juno.
But they were not destined for any slackening of the pressure. Cheeta had gone it is true, and her father also, but danger was now from another quarter. The crowd was beginning to surge towards them. There were cries of anger, for they were very afraid. Everything had gone wrong. They were cold. They were lost. They were hungry. And Cheeta, the centre of it all, had forsaken them. Who could they turn to? In their lost condition, they could do little else but fling abuse at the shadowy figures, and it was only after a particularly ugly bout that a thick voice called out …
‘And look at them,’ it cried. ‘Look at that fool in a bandage. Seventy-Seventh Earl! Ha! ha! There’s Gormenghast for you. Why don’t you come and prove yourself, my lord?’
Why this particular remark should have got under Muzzlehatch’s skin, it is hard to fathom, but it did, and he stalked to the border of the crowd in order to annihilate the man. In order to do so he passed, swaggering in his rags, between the two inscrutable Helmeteers. As he did so there was a kind of hush as they slid aside to let him through. Then, as though it had all been premeditated, they turned and, bringing out their long-bladed knives, they stabbed Muzzlehatch in the back.
He did not die all at once, though the blades were long. He did not make a sound except for a catch in his breath. The red had gone out of his eyes, and in its place was a prodigious sanity. ‘Where’s Titus?’ he said. ‘Bring the young ruffian here.’
There was no need to tell Titus what to do. He flung himself at Muzzlehatch, yet with tenderness, for all his passion, and he clasped his old friend with his hand.
‘Hey! hey!’ whispered Muzzlehatch. ‘Don’t squeeze out what’s left of me, my dear.’
‘Oh my dear Muzzle … my dear friend.’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ whispered Muzzlehatch, as he began to sag at the knees. ‘Mustn’t get morbid … eh? … eh? … Where is your hand, boy?’
What had been diffused throughout the sunrise, had now contracted to a focus. What was atmospheric had become almost solid. As they looked at one another, they saw what some see under the influence of drugs, a peculiar nearness, and a vividness hardly to be borne.
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN
Juno, though knowing herself to be an outsider, in spite of her devotion to them both, yet had no power to keep away from her one-time lover, and it is strange that they needed Muzzlehatch at this last moment more than vengeance. Vengeance was to come, and Anchor was on his way to dispense it.
By now the sun was clear of the eastern forests, and every shape of form and colour would have shone clearly were it not for the omnipresent veil of the foul orange tint, that bastard hue, that was neither red nor yellow, but wavered on the brink of both. The only thing that burned with decision was Anchor.
Within a few strides he was beside them. The Helmeted Men. They were wiping their long steel blades upon the dock leaves that grew profusely on the floor of the Black House. For a moment his stomach turned with