by Mervyn Peake
Outside her window the sun shone fiercely on the honey-coloured stone of the tall house. The wall fell featurelessly down to a swift river.
On the other side of the house was the great quadrangle of prawn-coloured bricks and the hideous moss-covered statues of naked athletes and broken horses.
‘There is nothing I can say,’ said Titus.
‘Of course there is nothing you can say. I understand. Some things can never be expressed. They lie too deep.’
She rose from beside him and turning away, tossed her proud handsome head. Her eyes were shut.
Something fell and struck the floor with a faint sound. It was her right earring, and she knew that the proud flinging gesture of her head had dislodged it, but she also knew that this was not the moment to pay any attention to so trivial a disturbance. Her eyes remained shut and her nostrils remained dilated.
Her hands came slowly together and then she lifted them to her up-flung chin.
‘Titus,’ she said, and her voice was little more than a whisper, a whisper less affected than one would expect to emerge from a lady in the stance she was adopting, with the plumes of her hat reaching down between her shoulder blades.
‘Yes,’ said Titus, ‘What is it?’
‘I am losing you, Titus. You are dissolving away. What is it I am doing wrong?’
At a bound Titus was off the bed and with his hands grasping her elbows had turned her about so that they faced one another in the warm dust of the high room. And then his heart grew sick, for he saw that her cheeks were wet and there in the wetness that wandered down her cheek a stain from her lashes appeared to float and thinly spread so that her heart became naked to him.
‘Juno! Juno! This is too much for me. I cannot bear it.’
‘There is no need to, Titus – please turn your head away.’
But Titus, taking no notice, held her closer than ever while her cheekbones swam with tears. But her voice was steady.
‘Leave me, Titus. I would rather be alone,’ she said.
‘I will never forget you,’ said Titus, his hands trembling. ‘But I must go. Our love is too intense. I am a coward. I cannot take it. I am selfish but not ungrateful. Forgive me, Juno – and say good-bye.’
But Juno, directly he released her, turned from him and, walking to the window, took out a mirror from her handbag.
‘Good-bye,’ said Titus.
Again there was no reply.
The blood rushed into the boy’s head, and hardly knowing what he was doing he ran from the room and down the stairs and out into a winter afternoon.
FORTY-SIX
So Titus fled from Juno. Out of the garden and down the riverside road he kept on running. A sense of both shame and liberation filled him as he ran. Shame that he had deserted his mistress after all the kindness and love she had showered on him; and liberation in finding himself alone, with no one to weigh him down with affection.
But after a little while, his sense of aloneness was not altogether pleasurable. He was aware that something was missing. Something that he had half forgotten during his stay at Juno’s house. It was nothing to do with Juno. It was a feeling that in leaving her he had once again to face the problem of his own identity. He was a part of something bigger than himself. He was a chip of stone, but where was the mountain from which it had broken away? He was the leaf but where was the tree? Where was his home? Where was his home?
Hardly knowing where he was going, he found after a long while that he was drawing near to that network of streets that surrounded Muzzlehatch’s house and zoo; but before he reached that tortuous quarter he became aware of something else.
The road down which he stumbled was long and straight with high, windowless walls. The lines of perspective converged not many degrees from the skyline.
There was no one ahead of him in spite of the length of the road, but it seemed that he was no longer alone. Something had joined him. He turned as he ran, and at first saw nothing, for he had focused his eyes upon the distance. Then all at once he halted, for he became aware of something floating beside him, at the height of his shoulders.
It was a sphere no bigger than the clenched fist of a child, and was composed of some transparent substance, so pellucid that it was only visible in certain lights, so that it seemed to come and go.
Dumbfounded, Titus drew aside from the centre of the road until he could feel the northern wall at his back. For a few moments he leaned there seeing no sign of the glassy sphere, until suddenly, there it was again, hovering above him.
This time as Titus watched it he could see that it was filled with glittering wires, an incredible filigree like frost on a pane; and then as a cloud moved over the sun, and a dim, sullen light filled the windowless street, the little hovering globe began to throb with a strange light like a glow-worm.
At first, Titus had been more amazed than frightened by the mobile globe which had appeared out of nowhere, and followed or seemed to follow every movement he made; but then fear began to make his legs feel weak, for he realized that he was being watched not by the globe itself, for the globe was only an agent, but by some remote informer who was at this very moment receiving messages. It was this that turned Titus’ fear into anger, and he swung back his arms as though to strike the elusive thing which hovered like a bird of paradise.
At the moment that Titus raised his hand, the sun came out again, and the little glittering globe with its coloured entrails of exquisite wire slid out of range, and hovered again as though it were an eyeball watching every move.
Then, as though restless, it sped, revolving on its axis, to the far end of the street where it turned about immediately and sang its way back to where it hung again five feet from Titus, who, fishing his knuckle of flint from his pocket, slung it at the hovering ball, which broke in a cascade of dazzling splinters, and as it broke there was a kind of gasp, as though the globe had given up its silvery ghost … as though it had a sentience of its own, or a state of perfection so acute that it entered, for the split second, the land of the living.
Leaving the broken thing behind him he began to run again. Fear had returned, and it was not until he found himself in Muzzlehatch’s courtyard that he came to a halt.
FORTY-SEVEN
Long before Titus could see Muzzlehatch he could hear him. That great rusty voice of his was enough to split the ear-drums of a deaf-mute. It thudded through the house, stamping itself upstairs and down again, in and out of half-deserted rooms and through the open windows so that the beasts and the birds lifted up their heads, or tilted them upon one side as though to savour the echoes.
Muzzlehatch lay stretched at length upon a low couch, and gazed directly down through the lower panes of a wide french window on the third floor. It gave him an unimpeded view of the long line of cages below him, where his animals lay drowsing in the pale sunlight.
This was a favourite room and a favourite view of his. On the floor at his side were books and bottles. His small ape sat at the far end of the couch. It had wrapped itself up in a piece of cloth and gazed sadly at its master, who had only a few moments ago been mouthing a black dirge of his own concoction.
Suddenly the small ape sprang to its feet and swung its long arms to and fro in a strangely jointless way, for it had heard a foot on the stairs two floors beneath.
Muzzlehatch lifted himself on to one elbow and listened. At first he could hear nothing, but then he also became aware of footsteps.
At last the door opened and an old bearded servant put his head around the corner.
‘Well, well,’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘By the grey fibres of the xadnos tree, you look splendid, my friend. Your beard has never looked more authentic. What do you want?’
‘There is a young man here, sir, who would like to see you.’
‘Really? What appallingly low taste. That can only be young Titus.’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ said Titus, taking a step into the room. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course you can, s
weet rebus. Should I be getting to my palsied feet? What with you in a suit like migraine, and a spotted tie, and co-respondent shoes, you humble me. But swish as a willow-switch you look indeed! There’s been some scissor flashing, not a doubt.’
‘Can I sit down?’
‘Sit down, of course you can. The whole floor is yours. Now then,’ muttered Muzzlehatch, as the ape leapt upon his shoulder, ‘mind my bloody eyes, boy, I’ll be needing them later,’ and then, turning to Titus –
‘Well, what do you want?’ he said.
‘I want to talk,’ said Titus
‘What about, boy?’
Titus looked up. The huge, craggy head was tilted on one side. The light coming through the window surrounded it with a kind of frosty nimbus. Remote and baleful, it put Titus in mind of the inordinate moon with its pits and craters. It was a domain of leather, rock and bone.
‘What about, boy?’ he said again.
‘First of all, my fear,’ said Titus. ‘Believe me, sir, I didn’t like it.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I am afraid of the globe. It followed me until I broke it. And when I broke it, it sighed. And I forgot my flint. And without my flint I am lost … even more lost than before. For I have nothing else to prove where I come from, or that I ever had a native land. And the proof of it is only proof for me. It is no proof of anything to anyone but me. I have nothing to hold in my hand. Nothing to convince myself that it is not a dream. Nothing to prove my actuality. Nothing to prove that we are talking together here, in this room of yours. Nothing to prove my hands, nothing to prove my voice. And the globe! That intellectual globe! Why was it following me? What did it want? Was it spying on me? Is it magic, or is it science? Will they know who broke it? Will they be after me?’
‘Have a brandy,’ said Muzzlehatch.
Titus nodded his head.
‘Have you seen them, Mr Muzzlehatch? What are they?’
‘Just toys, boy, just toys. They can be simple as an infant’s rattle, or complex as the brain of man. Toys, toys, toys, to be played with. As for the one you chose to smash, number LKZ00572 ARG 39 576 Aij9843K2532 if I remember rightly, I have already read about it and how it is reputed to be almost human. Not quite, but almost. So THAT is what has happened? You have broken something quite hideously efficient. You have blasphemed against the spirit of the age. You have shattered the very spear-head of advancement. Having committed this reactionary crime, you come to me. Me! This being so, let me peer out of the window. It is always well to be watchful. These globes have origins. Somewhere or other there’s a backroom boy, his soul working in the primordial dark of a diseased yet sixty horse-power brain.’
‘There’s something else, Mr Muzzlehatch.’
‘I’m sure there is. In fact there is everything else.’
‘You belittle me,’ said Titus, turning suddenly upon him, ‘by your way of talking. It is serious to me.’
‘Everything is serious or not according to the colour of one’s brain.’
‘My brain is black,’ said Titus, ‘if that’s a colour.’
‘Well? Spit it out. The core of it.’
‘I have deserted Juno.’
‘Deserted her?’
‘Yes.’
‘It had to happen. She is too good for males.’
‘I thought you would hate me.’
‘Hate you? Why?
‘Well, sir, wasn’t she your … your …’
‘She was my everything. But like the damned creature that I inescapably am, I swapped her for the freedom of my limbs. For solitude which I eat as though it were food. And if you like, for animals. I have erred. Why? Because I long for her and am too proud to admit it. So she slipped away from me like a ship on the ebb tide.’
‘I loved her too,’ said Titus: ‘If you can believe it.’
‘To be sure you did, my pretty cutlet. And you still do. But you are young and prickly: passionate and callow: so you deserted her.’
‘Oh God!’ said Titus. ‘Talk, sir, with fewer words. I am sick of language.’
‘I will try to,’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘Habits are hard to break.’
‘Oh, sir, have I hurt your feelings?’
Muzzlehatch turned away and stared through the window. Almost immediately below him, he could see, through the bars of a domed roof, a family of leopards.
‘Hurt my feelings! Ha ha! Ha ha! I am a kind of crocodile on end. I have no feelings. As for you. Get on with life. Eat it up. Travel. Make journeys in your mind. Make journeys on your feet. To prison with you in a filthy garb! To glory with you in a golden car! Revel in loneliness. This is only a city. This is no place to halt.’
Muzzlehatch was still turned away.
‘What of the castle that you talk about – that crepuscular myth? Would you return after so short a journey? No, you must go on. Juno is part of your journey. So am I. Wade on, child. Before you lie the hills, and their reflections. Listen! Did you hear that?’
‘What?’ said Titus.
Muzzlehatch did not trouble to answer as he raised himself on one elbow, and peered out of the window.
There away to the east, he saw a column of scientists marching, and almost at the same moment the beasts of the zoo began to lift their heads, and stare all in the same direction.
‘What is it?’ said Titus.
Muzzlehatch again took no notice, but this time Titus did not wait for an answer, but moved to the window, and stared down, with Muzzlehatch, cheek by cheek, at the panorama spread out below him.
Then came the music: the sound of trumpets as from another world: the distant throbbing of the drums; and then, shattering the distance, the raw immoderate yell of a lion.
‘They are after us,’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘They are after our guts.’
‘Why?’ said Titus. ‘What have I done?’
‘You have only destroyed a miracle,’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘Who knows how pregnant with possibilities that globe could be? Why, you dunderhead, a thing like that could wipe out half the world. Now, they’ll have to start again. You were observed. They were on their toes. Perhaps they found your flint. Perhaps they have seen us together. Perhaps this … perhaps that. One thing is certain. You must disappear. Come here.’
Titus frowned, and then straightened himself. Then he took a step towards the big man.
‘Have you heard of the Under-River?’ asked Muzzlehatch.
Titus shook his head.
‘This badge will take you there.’ Muzzlehatch folded back his cuff, and tore away a bit of fabric from the lining. On the small cloth badge was printed the sign
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ said Titus.
‘Keep quiet. Time is on the slide. The drums are twice as loud. Listen.’
‘I can hear them. What do they want? What about your …?’
‘My animals? Let them but try to touch them. I’ll loose the white gorilla on the sods. Put away the badge, my dear. Never lose it. It will take you down.’
‘Down?’ said Titus.
‘Down. Down into an order of darkness. Waste no time.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Titus.
‘This is no time for comprehension. This is a great moment for the legs.’
Then suddenly a screaming of monkeys filled the room, and even Muzzlehatch with his stentorian throat was forced to raise his voice to a shout.
‘Down the stairs with you, and into the wine cellars. Turn left immediately at the foot of the flight, and mind the nails on the hand-rail. Left again, and you will see ahead of you, dimly, a tunnel, vaulted and hung with filthy webs as thick as blankets. Press on for an hour at least. Go carefully. Beware of the ground at your feet. It is littered with the relics of another age. There is a stillness down there that is not to be dwelt upon. Here, cram these in your pockets.’
Muzzlehatch strode across the room, and pulling open a drawer in an old cabinet he took a fistful of candles.
‘Where are we? Ah yes. Listen. By now you will be u
nder the city at the northern end, and the darkness will be intense. The walls of the tunnel will be closing in. There will not be much room above your head. You will have to move doubled up. Easier for you than for me. Are you listening? If not, I’ll blast you, child. This is no game.’
‘O sir,’ said Titus, ‘that is why I cannot keep still. Listen to the trumpets! Listen to the beasts!’
‘Listen to me instead! You have your candle raised; but in place of hollow darkness you have before you a gate. At the foot of the gate is a black dish, upside down. Underneath it you will find a key. It may not be the key to your miserable life, but it will open the gate for you. Once through, and you have before you a long, narrow gradient that stretches at average pace for forty minutes. If you whisper the world sighs and sighs again. If you shout the earth reverberates.’
‘Oh sir,’ said Titus, ‘don’t be poetic, I can’t bear it. The zoo is going mad. And the scientists … the scientists …’
‘Fugger the scientists!’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘Now listen like a fox. I said a gradient. I said echoes. But now another thing. The sound of water …’
‘Water,’ said Titus, ‘I’m damned if I’ll drown.’
‘Pull your miserable self together, Lord Titus Groan. You will come, inevitably, to where suddenly, on turning a corner, there is a noise above you, like distant thunder, for you will be under the river itself … the same river that brought you to the city months ago. Ahead of you will spread a half-lit field of flagstones, at the far end of which you will see the glow of a green lantern. This lantern is set upon a table. Seated at this table, his face reflecting the light, you will see a man. Show him the badge I have given you. He will scrutinize it through a glass, then look up at you with an eye as yellow as lemon peel, whistle softly through a gap in his teeth until a child comes trotting through the shadows and beckons you to follow to the north.’