Peake, Mervyn - 02 Gormenghast

A voice out of the pall cried: 'Silence, gentlemen, for Mr Bellgrove!' and another... 'Oh, hell, my teeth! my teeth!'... and another... 'If only he didn't dream of stoats!'... and another: 'Where's my gold watch gone to?' and then The Fly again: 'Silence, gentlemen! Silence for Bellgrove! Are you ready, sir?' The Fly peered into Deadyawn's vacant face.

In reply Deadyawn answered: 'Why... not?' with a peculiarly long interval between the 'Why' and the 'not'.

Bellgrove read: Edict 1597577361544329621707193 'To Deadyawn, Headmaster, and to the Gentlemen of the Professorial Staff: to all Ushers, Curators and others in authority -'

This-day of the –th month in the eighth year of the Seventy-seventh Earl, to wit: Titus, Lord of Gormenghast - notice and warning is given in regard to their attitude. treatment and methods of behaviour and approach in respect of the aforementioned Earl, who now at the threshold of the age of reason, may impress Headmaster, gentlemen of the professorial staff, ushers, curators, and the like, with the implications of his lineage to the extent of diverting these persons from their duty in regard to the immemorial law which governs the attitude which Deadyawn, etc., are strictly bound to show, inasmuch that they treat the seventy-seventh Earl in every particular and on every occasion as they would treat any other minor in their hands without let or favour: that a sense of the customs, traditions and observances - and above all, a sense of the duties attached to every branch of the Castle's life - be instilled and an indelible sense of the responsibilities which will become his when he attains his majority, at which time, with his formative years spent among the riff-raff of the Castle's youth, it is to be supposed that the 77th Earl will not only have developed an adroitness of mind, a knowledge of human nature, a certain stamina, but in addition a degree of learning dependent upon the exertions which you, Sir, Headmaster, and you, Sir, gentlemen of the professorial staff, bring to bear, which is your bounden duty, to say nothing of the privilege and honour which it represents.

All this, Sirs, is, or should be common knowledge to you, but the 77th Earl now being in his eighth year, I have seen fit to reawaken you to your responsibilities, in my capacity as Master of Ritual. etc., in which capacity I have the authority to make appearances at any moment in any classroom I choose in order to acquaint myself with the way in which your various knowledge is inculcated, and with particular regard to its effect upon the progress of the young Earl.

Deadyawn, Sir, I would have you impress your Staff with the magnitude of their office, and in particular...

But Bellgrove, his jaw suddenly hammering away as upon a white-hot anvil, flung the parchment from him and sank to his knees with a howl of pain which awoke Deadyawn to such a degree that he opened both his eyes.

'What was that?' said Deadyawn to The Fly.

'Bellgrove in pain, said the midget. 'Shall I finish the notice?'

'Why not?' said Deadyawn.

The paper was passed up to The Fly by Flannelcat, who had scrambled nervously out of the ashes, and was already imagining Barquentine in his classroom and the dirty liquid eyes of that one-legged creature fixed upon the ink that was even now trickling down the leather walls.

The Fly plucked the paper from Flannelcat's hand and continued after a preparatory whistle effected through a collusion of the knuckles, lips and windpipe. So shrill was the sound of it that the recumbent staff were jolted upright on their haunches as one man.

The Fly read quickly, one word running into the next, and finished Barquentine's edict almost at a single breath.

... would have you impress your Staff with the magnitude of their office, and in particular those members who confuse the ritual of their calling with mere habit, making of themselves obnoxious limpets upon the living rock; or, like vile bindweed round a breathing stem, stifle the Castle's breath.

Signed (as for) Barquentine, Master of Ritual. Keeper of the Observances, and hereditary overlord of the manuscripts by Steerpike (Amanuensis).

Someone had lit a lantern. It did very little, as it stood on the table, but illumine with a dusky glow the breast of the stuffed cormorant. There was something disgraceful about its necessity at noon in summer-time.

'If ever there was an obnoxious limpet swaddled in bindweed you are that limpet, my friend,' said Perch-Prism to Bellgrove. 'Do you realize that the whole thing was addressed to you? You've gone too far for an old man. Far too far. What will you do when they remove you, friend? Where will you go. Have you anyone that loves you?'

'Oh, rotten hell!' shouted Bellgrove, in so loud and uncontrolled a voice that even Deadyawn smiled. It was perhaps the faintest, wannest smile that ever agitated for a moment the lower half of a human face. The eyes took no part in it. They were as vacant as saucers of milk; but one end of the mouth lifted as might the cold lip of a trout.

'Mr... Fly...' said the Headmaster in a voice as far away as the ghost of his vanished smile. 'Mr... Fly... you... virus, where... are... you?'

'Sir?' said The Fly.

'Was... that... Bellgrove?'

'It was, sir,' said The Fly.

'And... how... is... he... these... days?'

'He is in pain,' said The Fly.

'Deep... pain...?'

'Shall I inquire, sir?' said The Fly.

'Why... not...?'

'Bellgrove!' shouted The Fly.

'What is it, damn you?' said Bellgrove.

'The Head is inquiring about your health.'

'About mine?' said Bellgrove.

'About 'yours',' said The Fly.

'Sir?' queried Bellgrove, peering in the direction of the voice.

'Come... nearer...' said Deadyawn. I... can't... see... you... my... poor... friend.'

'Nor I you, sir.'

'Put... out... your... hand,... Bellgrove, Can... you... feel... anything?'

'Is this your foot, sir?'

'It... is... indeed,... my... poor... friend.'

'Quite so, sir,' said Bellgrove.

'Now... tell... me... Bellgrove,... tell... me...'

'Yes, sir?'

'Are... you... unwell... my... poor... friend?'

'Localized pain, sir.'

'Would... it... be... the... mandibles...?'

'That is so, sir.'

'As in... the... old... days... when... you were ambitious When you... had ideals, Bellgrove We all... had hopes of... you, I... seem to... remember.' (There was a horrible sound of laughter like porridge.)

'Indeed, sir.'

'Does... anyone... still... believe... in... you,... my... poor... poor... friend?'

There was no answer.

'Come... come. It is not for you to resent your destiny. To... cavil... at... the... sere... and... yellow... leaf. Oh... no... my... poor... Bellgrove,... you... have... ripened. Perhaps... you... have... over-ripened. Who knows? We all... go... bad... in... time. Do... you... look about... the same,... my.... friend?'

'I don't know,' said Bellgrove.

'I... am... tired,' said Deadyawn. 'What... am... I... doing... here? Where's... that... virus... Mr... Fly?'

'Sir!' came the musket shot.

'Get... me out of this. Wheel... me... out... of it... into stillness Mr Fly Wheel... me... into... the soft... darkness...' (His voice lifted into a ghastly, treble, which though it was still empty and flat had in it the seeds of life.) 'Wheel... me...' (it cried) 'into... the... golden... void.'

'Right away, sir,' said The Fly.

All at once it seemed as though the professors' Common-room was full of ravenous seagulls, but the screaming came from the unoiled wheels of the high chair, which were slowly turning. The door-handle was located by Flannelcat after a few moments' fumbling and the door was pushed wide. A glow of light could be seen in the passage outside. Against this light the smoke-wreaths coiled, and a little later the high, fantastic silhouette of Deadyawn, like a sack at the apex of the rickety high chair made its creaking departure from the room like some high, black form of scaffolding with a life of its own.