The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy

by Mervyn Peake

  ‘What do you want, my dear?’

  ‘Tell me first,’ said Cheeta, ‘where are you? Are we near each other?’

  ‘O dear no,’ said the scientist. ‘We’re a long way apart.’

  ‘How long would it take me to …’

  ‘You can’t come here,’ said the scientist, with a note almost of alarm in his voice. ‘No one comes here.’

  ‘But I want to talk to you. It’s urgent.’

  ‘I will be home for dinner. Can’t you wait until then?’

  ‘No,’ said Cheeta, ‘I can’t. Now listen. Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Twenty years ago, when I was six, an expedition set out to plot out territory in the south-west. We found ourselves bogged down and had to give up. On our return journey we came unexpectedly upon a ruin. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘I am questioning you in secrecy, father.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I must go there today.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. But who will guide me?’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Do you mean to have the party there?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Oh no … no …’

  ‘Oh yes. But how to find him. Who was he? The man who led the expedition long ago? Is he alive?’

  ‘He is an old man now.’

  ‘Where does he live? There is no time to waste. The party is close upon us. Oh hurry father. Hurry!’

  ‘He lives,’ said the scientist, ‘where the Two Rivers join.’

  Cheeta left him at once, and he was glad, for Cheeta was the only thing he feared.

  Little did he know that someone more to be feared was making his way, all unknowing, in the direction of the factory. A figure with a wild light in his eyes, a five day growth on his chin, and a nose like a rudder.

  NINETY

  It was not long before Cheeta ran the old man to ground, and a tough old bird he proved to be. She asked him at once whether he remembered the expedition, and in particular the unhealthy night that the party spent at the Black House.

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course I do. What about it eh?’

  ‘You must take me there. At once,’ said Cheeta, recoiling inwardly, for his age was palpable.

  ‘Why should I?’ he said.

  ‘You will be paid … well paid. We’ll go by helicopter.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said the septuagenarian.

  ‘We’ll fly,’ said Cheeta, ‘and find it from above.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the old man.

  ‘The Black House … you understand?’ said Cheeta.

  ‘Yes, I heard you. The Black House. South-sou’east. Follow the knee-deep river. Aha! Then west into the territory of the wild dogs. How much?’ he said, and he shook his dirty grey hair.

  ‘Come now,’ said Cheeta. ‘We’ll talk of that later.’

  But it was not enough for the dirty old man, the one-time explorer. He asked a hundred questions; sometimes of the airborne flight, or of the machine, but for the most part of the financial side which seemed to be his chief interest.

  Finally everything was settled and within two hours they were on their way, skimming the tree-tops.

  Beneath them was little to be seen but great seas of foliage.

  NINETY-ONE

  Titus, drowsy in the arms of a village girl, a rosy, golden thing, opened one eye as they lay together on the banks of a loquacious river, for he had heard through the ripples another sound. At first he could see nothing, but lifting his head he was surprised to see a yellow aircraft passing behind the leaves of the overhanging trees. Close as it was, Titus was yet unable to see who was piloting the machine, and as for the village maiden, she neither knew nor cared.

  NINETY-TWO

  The weather was perfect, and the helicopter floated without the least hindrance over the tree-tops. For a long while there was silence aboard, but at last Cheeta, the pilot, turned to look at her companion. There was something foul in the way his dirtiness was being carried aloft, through the pure air. What made it worse was the way he stared at her.

  ‘If you keep looking at me,’ she said, ‘we may miss the landmarks. What should we be looking for now?’

  ‘Your legs,’ said the old man. ‘They’d go down very nice, with onion sauce.’ He leered at her, and then all at once cried out in a hoarse voice, ‘The shallow river! Alter her course to south’d.’

  Three long cobalt-blue mountains had hoisted themselves above the horizon and what with the sunlight bathing the foliage below them, and dancing down the river, it was a scene so tranquil that the sudden chill that rose, as though on an updraught from below, was horrible in its unexpectedness. It seemed that the cold in the air was directed against them, and at the same moment, on looking down as though to see the cause of the cold, Cheeta cried out involuntarily …

  ‘The Black House! Look! Look! There below us.’

  Hovering as they descended; descending as they hovered, the ill-matched pair were now no more than weather-cock high above the ruin … for so it was … though known (time out of mind), as the Black House.

  Very little of the roof was left, and none of the inner walls, but Cheeta, gazing down, recalled immediately the vast interior of the building.

  It had an atmosphere about it that was unutterably mournful; a quality that could not be wholly accounted for by the fact that the place was mouldering horribly; that the floor was soft with moss; or that the walls were lost in ferns. There was something more than this that gave the Black House its air of deadly darkness; a darkness that owed nothing to the night, and seemed to dye the day.

  ‘I’m bringing her in,’ said Cheeta, and as they came down to make a perfect landing in a grey carpet of nettles, a small fox pricked its ears, and loped away, and as though taking their cue, a murmuration of starlings rose in a dense cloud which coiled its way up, up into the sky.

  The old man, finding himself on terra firma, made no immediate effort to get to his feet, but stretched out his withered arms and legs, as though he was a ragged windmill, and then, prising himself to his feet …

  ‘Hey you!’ he cried. ‘Now that you’re in it, what do you want with it? An armful of bloody nettles?’

  Cheeta took no notice, but made her way, quick and light as a bird, to and fro across what might have been the shell of an abbey, for there was a heap of masonry that might or might not have been some kind of altar, sacred or profane.

  As Cheeta flickered to and fro over the moss and fallen leaves, with the pale sun above her and the surrounding forest breathing gently to itself, she was taking note of every kind of thing. To her it was second nature to remember anything that might prove to her advantage, and so today it was a case of absorbing into her brain and being, not only the exact lie of the land; not only the orientation and the proportions and the scale of this bizarre setting, but also the exits and entrances that were to fill with figures unforeseen.

  Meanwhile, the old man, unabashed, made water in a feeble arc.

  ‘Hey, you,’ he shouted in that gritty voice of his, ‘where is it then?’

  ‘Where is what?’ whispered Cheeta. It was obvious from her tone of voice that her mind was elsewhere.

  ‘The treasure. That’s what we’ve come for, ain’t it? The treasure of the Black House.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ said Cheeta.

  A flush of anger spread itself over the old man’s face so that the hot hue became reflected in the white of the beard.

  ‘Never heard of it?’ he cried. ‘Why you …’

  ‘Any more abuse from you,’ said Cheeta in a voice quite horrible in its listlessness, ‘and I will leave you here. Here, among a thousand rotting things.’

  The old man snarled.

  ‘Get into your seat,’ said Cheeta. ‘If you touch me, I will have you whipped.’

  The return journey was a race against darkness, for Cheeta had remained longer than she had meant in the Black House.
Now, sailing over the varying landscape that slid below them, she had time to make her calculations.

  For instance, there was the problem of how the workmen, and later on, the guests, were to find their way through long neglected woodlands, swamps and valleys. Here and there, it is true, there were signs of ancient roads, but these could not be relied upon, as they were apt at any moment to go underground or lose themselves beneath the swamp or sand.

  This problem was largely solved (in theory) by Cheeta, as she floated down the sky; for her idea was to have several scores of men dropped at regular intervals in a long line reaching from the known boundaries to the tundra of the south-east, and the forests of the Black House.

  At a given time it was for these scores of isolated men to ignite the great stacks of timber that they had been collecting all day long. With the smoke from these great bonfires to guide him, the least intelligent voyager to the Black House would surely be able to make his way without difficulty, and in any fashion he chose, whether by air or on land.

  The workmen, thought Cheeta, as she perused the landscape, must have at least three days’ start, and must return before the first of the guests. They must work to plan and in silence, not one of them knowing the business of his neighbour.

  They must come in every kind of vehicle, from great vans loaded with the most unlikely contents, to pony traps: from long cars to wheelbarrows.

  At dawn, on the day of the Party … there must be sounded across the land the voice of a gong. And Cheeta would have been prepared to stake a fortune that anyone near Titus at the time of the gong-boom, would see a shadow cross his face … almost as though he were reminded of another world: a world he had deserted.

  NINETY-THREE

  For all her skill and speed, a time had come when it was impossible for Cheeta to be everywhere at the same time (a characteristic for which she was famous), and within a matter of minutes, she had stepped out of the helicopter and was on her way to the ‘Making Shops’, and within a few minutes more she was in rapid conversation with the more responsible of the ‘makers’.

  It was now impossible to carry on without a delegation of duties, for time was hard at their heels. Some part of the secrecy must inevitably be made less stringent for, unless the curtain were raised a little, there would be danger of chaos. As it was it was almost too late. For all the power that Cheeta held in her tiny, bow-string body, there was yet a murmur of discontent in the Workshops that grew louder every day.

  Even among the gentry there were murmurings; and Cheeta was forced to take a couple of them into her confidence.

  Apart from this there was her father. He had at last been partially won over.

  ‘It won’t be long, father.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said the hollow wisp.

  ‘You must do as you’re told, mustn’t you? Is your costume ready? And your mask?’

  A fly settled on the horrible egg-shaped head. Twitching the skin of his cranium into a minor convulsion he dislodged the creature, and by the time he was able to answer, his daughter was no longer with him. Cheeta had no time to waste.

  NINETY-FOUR

  At a muster of the executive, which numbered nine souls including Cheeta (if she can be called a soul) and which had among its numbers representatives of all social grades, it was agreed that everybody should be kept in suspense as to where the party should take place; the chosen nine alone being in some kind of mental half-light.

  These nine alone were bribed. These nine alone had some kind of inkling as to what was being made in the shops, the barns, the warehouses, and the private houses.

  Yet there was rancour among the nine. It is true that compared with the horde they were privileged, but compared with Cheeta they were in outer darkness, fobbed off with bits and pieces of knowledge; knowing only that out of the miscellaneous chaos, some kind of mammoth invention was at work in Cheeta’s brain.

  NINETY-FIVE

  ‘I’ve got a feeling,’ said Juno, ‘that all is not well with Titus. I dreamed of him last night. He was in danger.’

  ‘He’s been in danger most of his life,’ said the Anchor. ‘I don’t think he’d know what to do with himself if he wasn’t.’

  ‘Do you believe in him?’ said Juno, after a long pause. ‘I’ve never asked you before. I’ve always feared the answer, I suppose.’

  Anchor raised his eyes, and studied the ceiling of a private lounge on the ninety-ninth floor. Then he leaned back against an indigo cushion. Juno stood by a window. She was as regal as ever. The fullness under her chin, and the tiny crow’s-feet around her eyes in no way impaired her grandeur. The room was full of a pale blue light which gave a strange glint to the Anchor’s mop of red hair. Far away there was a murmuring sound like the sound of the sea.

  ‘Do I believe in him?’ queried the Anchor. ‘What does that mean? I believe in his existence. Just as I believe that you are shaking. Are you ill?’

  Juno turned round and faced him. ‘I am not ill,’ she whispered, ‘but I will be if you don’t answer my question. You know what I mean.’

  ‘His castle and his lineage? Is that what worries you?’

  ‘He’s such a boy! Such a golden boy! He was always sweet with me. How is it he could lie to me, and to everyone? What do you feel at the sound of that strange word?’

  ‘Gormenghast?’

  ‘Yes, Gormenghast. Oh, Anchor my dear. I have such a pain in my heart.’

  Anchor rose to his feet in one quiet movement and moved with a faintly rolling gait towards her. But he did not touch her.

  ‘He is not mad,’ he said. ‘Whatever else he is, he is not mad. If he were mad then it would be better for madness to thrive in the world. No. Inventive perhaps. He may be for all we know the last word in the realms of imagery, supposition, hypothesis, conjecture, surmise, and all that is clothed in the wild webs of his imagination. But mad? No.’

  Anchor looked at her with a wry smile on his lips.

  ‘Then you don’t believe him, for all your long words,’ cried Juno. ‘You think he’s a liar! Oh my dear Anchor, what has come over me? I feel so frightened.’

  ‘It was your dream,’ said Anchor. ‘What was it about?’

  ‘I saw him,’ whispered Juno at last, ‘staggering with a castle on his back. Tall towers were intertwined with locks of dark red hair. He cried out as he stumbled … “Forgive me! Forgive me!” Behind him floated eyes. Nothing but eyes! Swarms of them. They sang as they floated through the air at his side, their pupils expanding or contracting according to the notes they were singing. It was horrible. They were so intent, you see. Like hounds about to tear a fox apart. Yet they sang all the while, so that it was sometimes difficult to hear the voice of Titus calling out, “Forgive me. For pity’s sake, forgive me”.’

  Juno turned to the Anchor.

  ‘You see, he is in danger. Why else should I dream? We must not rest until we find him.’

  She turned her head up to his.

  ‘It isn’t love any more,’ she said, ‘as it used to be. I have lost my jealousy and my bitterness. Nothing of this is any longer a part of me. I want Titus for another reason … just as I want Muzzlehatch and others I have cared for in the past. The past. Yes, that is it. I need my past again. Without it I am nothing. I bob like a cork on deep water. Perhaps I am not brave enough. Perhaps I am frightened. We thought that we could start our lives again. But all this time I brood upon what’s gone. The haze has settled like a golden dust. O my dear friend. My dear Anchor. Where are they? What shall I do?’

  ‘We will away and find them. We’ll lay their ghosts, my dear. When shall we start?’

  ‘Now,’ said Juno.

  Anchor got to his feet.

  ‘Now it is,’ he said.

  NINETY-SIX

  He only knew he was aloft and airborne: that no one answered him when he spoke: that he appeared to be moving: that there was a soft buzz of machinery: that the night air was gentle and balmy: that there were occasional voices from far below, and t
hat there was someone near him, sharing the same machine, who refused to talk.

  His hands were carefully tied behind him, so that he should suffer no pain: yet they were firm enough to prevent his escape. So it was with the silk scarf across his eyes. It had been carefully adjusted so that Titus should feel no inconvenience, save that of being sightless.

  That he was in such a predicament at all was something to wonder at. Indeed if it were not that Titus was apt to throw in his lot with any hare-brained scheme, he would by now be yelling for release.

  He had no sense of fear, for it had been explained to him that, this being the night of the party, he must expect anything. And he must believe that to make it a night of all nights, one element alone was paramount, and that element was the element of surprise. Without it, all would be stillborn, and die before its first wild breath was drawn.

  It was for him, at a future moment, to have the silk scarf plucked from his eyes to behold the light of a great bonfire, a hundred bright inventions.

  It was for him to await the quintessential instant and to let it flower. Under the star-flecked sky, under the sighing of the leaves and ferns, there lay the Black House. Here was a setting for a dark splendour, a dripping of the night dew. Here was the forlorn decay of centuries, which, were Titus to set his eyes upon it, could not fail to remind him of the dark clime he had thought to toss off like a cloak from his shoulders, but which he now knew he had no power to divest.

  Without surprise, all else was doomed to falter, as Cheeta well knew. It mattered not how brilliant the concept, how marvellous the spectacle, all, all would be lost unless the boy, Titus, suffered the supreme degradation.

  It was not for nothing that Cheeta had sat at the end of his bed hour after hour, while he raved or whispered in his fever. Over and over again she heard the same names repeated; the same scenes enacted. She knew to the last inch whom he loathed and whom he loved. She knew almost as though it were a map before her eyes, the winding core of Gormenghast. She knew who had died. She knew who were still alive. She knew of those who had stood by Gormenghast. She knew of an Abdicator.