now! hurry! Turn your heads to the door, there. You! yes, you, Sage Minor! And you there, Mint or whatever your name is – wake your ideas up. Hustle! hustle! hustle!’
Stupefied, the scholars began to file out of the door, their heads still turned over their shoulders at their late Headmaster.
Three or four other professors had to some extent recovered from the first horrible shock and were helping Perch-Prism to hustle the remnants of the class from the room.
At last the place was clear of boys. The sunlight played across the empty desks: it lit up the faces of the professors, but seemed to leave their gowns and mortarboards as black as though they alone were in shadow. It lit the soles of Deadyawn’s boots as they pointed stiffly to the ceiling.
Perch-Prism, glancing at the professors, saw that it was up to him to make the next move. His beady black eyes shone. What he had of a jaw he thrust forward. His round, babyish, pig-like face was set for action.
He opened his prim, rather savage little mouth and was about to call for help in righting the corpse, when a muffled voice came from an unexpected quarter. It sounded both near and far. It was difficult to make out a word, but for a moment or two the voice became less blurred. ‘No, I don’t think so, l’l man,’ it said, ‘for ’t’s love long lost, my queen, while Bellgrove guards you …’ (the drowsy voice continued in its sleep) ‘… when lion … sprowl I’ll tear their manes … awf … yoo. When serpents hiss at you I’ll tread on dem … probably … and scatter birds of prey to left an’ right.’
A long whistle from under the draperies and then, all of a sudden, with a shudder, the invertebrate mass began to uncoil itself as Bellgrove’s shrouded head raised itself slowly from his arms. Before he freed himself of the last layer of gown he sat back in his tutorial chair, and while he worked with his hands to free his head, his voice came out of the cloth darkness: ‘… Name an isthmus!’ it boomed. ‘Tinepott? … Quagfire? … Sparrowmarsh? … Hagg? … Dankle? … What! Can no one tell his old master the name of an isthmus?’
With a wrench he unravelled his head of the last vestment of gown, and there was his long, weak, noble face as naked and venerable as any deep sea monster’s.
It was a few moments before his pale-blue eyes had accustomed themselves to the light. He lifted his sculptured brow and blinked. ‘Name an isthmus,’ he repeated, but in a less interested voice, for he was beginning to be conscious of the silence in the room.
‘Name … an … isthmus!’
His eyes had accustomed themselves sufficiently for him to see, immediately ahead of him, the body of the Headmaster balanced upon his head.
In the peculiar silence his attention was so riveted upon the apparition in front of him that he hardly realized the absence of his class.
He got to his feet and bit at his knuckle, his head thrust forward. He withdrew his head and shook himself like a great dog; and then he leaned forward and stared once more. He had prayed that he was still asleep. But no, this was no dream. He had no idea that the Headmaster was dead, and so, with a great effort (thinking that a fundamental change had taken in Deadyawn’s psyche, and that he was showing Bellgrove this balancing feat in an access of self-revelation) he (Bellgrove) began to clap his big, finely-constructed hands together in a succession of deferential thuds, and to wear upon his face an expression of someone both intrigued and surprised, his shoulders drawn back, his head at a slant, his eyebrows raised, and the big forefinger of his right hand at his lips. The line of his mouth rose at either end, but his upward curve might as well have been downwards for all the power it had to disguise his consternation.
The heavy thuds of his hand-clapping sounded solitary. They echoed fully about the room. He turned his eyes to his class as though for support or explanation. He found neither. Only the infinite emptiness of deserted desks, with the broad, hazy shafts of the sun slanting across them.
He put his hand to his head and sat down suddenly.
‘Bellgrove!’ A crisp, sharp voice from behind him caused him to swing around. There, in a double line, silent as Deadyawn or the empty desks, stood the Professors of Gormenghast, like a male chorus or a travesty of Judgement Day.
Bellgrove stumbled to his feet and passed his hand across his brow.
‘Life itself is an isthmus,’ said a voice beside him.
Bellgrove turned his head. His mouth was ajar. His carious teeth were bared in a nervous smile.
‘What’s that?’ he said, catching hold of the speaker’s gown near the shoulder and pulling it forwards.
‘Get a grip on yourself,’ said the voice, and it was Shred’s. ‘This is a new gown. Thank you. Life is an isthmus, I said.’
‘Why?’ said Bellgrove, but with one eye still on Deadyawn. He was not really listening.
‘You ask me
Mr Shred was interrupted by Perch-Prism. ‘Mr Fluke,’ he shouted, ‘will you give me a hand?’ But for all their efforts they could do little with Deadyawn except reverse him. To seat him in Bellgrove’s chair, prior to his removal to the Professor’s mortuary, was in a way accomplished, though it was more a case of leaning the headmaster
But his gown was draped carefully about him. His face was covered with the blackboard duster, and when at last his mortar-board had been found under the debris of the high chair, it was placed with due decorum on his head.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Perch-Prism, when they had returned to the Common-room after a junior member had been dispatched to the doctor’s, the undertaker’s and to the red-stone yard to inform the scholars that the rest of the day was to be spent in an organized search for their school-fellow Titus – ‘Gentlemen,’ said Perch-Prism, ‘two things are paramount. One, that the search for the young Earl shall be pushed forward immediately in spite of interruption; and two, the appointment of the new Headmaster must be immediately made, to avoid anarchy. In my opinion,’ said Perch-Prism, his hands grasping the shoulder-tags of his gown while he rocked to and fro on his heels, ‘in my opinion the choice should fall, as usual, upon the senior member of the staff,
