The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy

Clarice, not to be outdone, had seen it as well. Neither of them was very interested.

Fuchsia turned to the Doctor as Nannie sat down, breathless, on the rust-coloured rug, Titus sliding from her arms.

‘You shouldn’t have done that, Doctor Prune,’ she said. ‘But, oh, Lord, how funny! Did you see Miss Prunesquallor’s face?’ She began to giggle, without mirth in her eyes. And then: ‘Oh, Doctor Prune, I shouldn’t have said that – she’s your sister.’

‘Only just,’ said the Doctor; and putting his teeth near Fuchsia’s ear he whispered: ‘She thinks she’s a lady.’ And then he grinned until the very lake seemed to be in danger of engulfment. ‘Oh, dear! the poor thing. Tries so hard, and the more she tries the less she is. Ha! ha! ha! Take it from me, Fuchsia dear, the only ladies are those to whom the idea of whether they are or not never occurs. Her blood’s all right – Irma’s – same as mine, ha, ha, ha! but it doesn’t go by blood. Its equipoise, my Gipsy, equipoise that does it – with a bucketful of tolerance thrown in. Why, bless my inappropriate soul, if I’m not treading on the skirts of the serious. Tut, tut, if I’m not.’

By now they were all sitting upon the rug and between them creating a monumental group of unusual grandeur. The little gusts of air were still leaping through the wood and ruffling the lake. The branches of the trees behind them chafed one another, and their leaves, like a million conspiring tongues, were husky with heresy.

Fuchsia was about to ask what ‘equipoise’ meant when her eye was caught by a movement among the trees on the farther side of the lake, and a moment later she was surprised to see a column of figures threading their way down to the shore, along which they began to move to the north, appearing and disappearing as the great water- growing cedars shrouded or revealed them.

Saving for the foremost figure, they carried loops of rope and the boughs of trees across their shoulders, and excepting the leader they appeared to be oldish men, for they moved heavily.

They were the Raft Makers, and were on their way by the traditional footpath, on the traditional day, to the traditional creek – that heat-hazy indentation of water backed by the crumbling wall and the coppice where the minnows and the tadpoles and the myriad microscopic small-fry of the warm, shallow water were so soon to be disturbed.

It was quite obvious who the leading figure was. There could be no mistaking that nimble, yet shuffling and edgeways-on – that horribly deliberate motivation that was neither walking nor running – both close to the ground as though on the scent, and yet loosely and nimbly above it.

Fuchsia watched him, fascinated. It was not often that Steerpike was to be seen without his knowing it. The Doctor, following Fuchsia’s eyes, was equally able to recognize the youth. His pink brow clouded. He had been cogitating a great deal lately on this and that – this being in the main the inscrutable and somehow ‘foreign’ youth, and that centring for the most part on the mysterious Burning. There had been so strange a crop of enigmas of late. If they had not been of so serious a character Doctor Prunesquallor would have found in them nothing but diversion. The unexpected did so much to relieve the monotony of the Castle’s endless rounds of unwavering procedure; but Death and Disappearance were no tit-bits for a jaded palate. They were too huge to be swallowed, and tasted like bile.

Although the Doctor, with a mind of his own, had positively heterodox opinions regarding certain aspects of the Castle’s life – opinions too free to be expressed in an atmosphere where the woof and warp of the dark place and its past were synonymous with the mesh of veins in the bodies of its denizens – yet he was of the place and was a freak only in that his mind worked in a wide way, relating and correlating his thoughts so that his conclusions were often clear and accurate and nothing short of heresy. But this did not mean that he considered himself to be superior. Oh no. He was not. The blind faith was the pure faith, however muddy the brain. His gem-like conclusions may have been of the first water, but his essence and his spirit were warped in proportion to his disbelief in the value of even the most footling observance. He was no outsider – and the tragedies that had occurred touched him upon the raw. His airy and fatuous manner was deceptive. As he trilled, as he prattled, as he indulged in his spontaneous ‘conceits’, as he gestured, fop-like and grotesque, his magnified eyes skidding to and fro behind the lenses of his glasses, like soap at the bottom of a bath, his brain was often other-where, and these days it was well occupied. He was marshalling the facts at his disposal – his odds and ends of information, and peering at them with the eye of his brain, now from this direction, now from that; now from below, now from above, as he talked, or seemed to listen, by day and by night, or in the evening with his feet on the mantelpiece, a liqueur at his elbow and his sister in the opposite chair.

He glanced at Fuchsia to make sure that she had recognized the distant boy, and was surprised to see a look of puzzled absorption on her dark face, her lips parted a little as though from a faint excitement. By now the crocodile of figures was rounding the bend of the lake away to their left. And then it stopped. Steerpike was moving away from the retainers, to the shore. He had apparently given them an order, for they all sat down among the shore-side pines and watched him as he stripped himself of his clothes and thrust his swordstick, point down, into the muddy bank. Even from so great a distance it could be seen that his shoulders were very hunched and high.

‘By all that’s public,’ said Prunesquallor, ‘so we have a new official, have we? The lakeside augury of things to come – fresh blood in summertime with forty years to go. The curtains part – precocity advances, ha, ha, ha! And what’s he doing now?’

Fuchsia had given a little gasp of surprise, for Steerpike had dived into the lake. A moment before he dived he had waved to them, although as far as they had been able to judge he had not so much as moved his eyes in their direction.

‘What was that?’ said Irma, swivelling her neck about in a most lubricated way. ‘I said, “what was that?”, Bernard. It sounded like a splash; do you hear me, Bernard? I say it sounded like a splash.’

‘That’s why,’ said her brother.

‘“That’s why?” What do you mean, Bernard by “that’s why”? You are so tiresome. I said, you are so tiresome. That’s why what?’

‘That’s why it was like a splash, my butterfly.’

‘But why? Oh, my conscience for a normal brother! Why, Bernard, was-it-like-a- splash?’

‘Only because it happened to be one, peahen,’ he said. ‘It was an authentic, undiluted splash. Ha! ha! ha! An undiluted splash.’

‘Oh!’ cried Mrs Slagg, her fingers plucking at her nether lip, ‘it wasn’t the shark, was it, Doctor sir? Oh, my weak heart, sir! Was it the shark?’