‘That is your direction,’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘Make for it. Then on and beyond for a month’s march, and you will be in comparative freedom. Freedom from the swarms of pilotless planes: freedom from bureaucracy: freedom from the police. And freedom of movement. It is largely unexplored. They are ill-equipped. No squadron for the water, sea, or sky. It is as it should be. A region where no one can remember who is in power. But there are forests like the Garden of Eden where you can lie on your belly and write bad verse. There will be nymphs for your ravishing, and flutes for your delectation. A land where youths lean backwards in their tracks, and piss the moon, as though to put it out.’
‘I am tired of your words,’ said Titus.
‘I use them as a kind of lattice-work,’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘They hide me away from me … let alone from you. Words can be tiresome as a swarm of insects. They can prick and buzz! Words can be no more than a series of farts; or on the other hand they can be adamantine, obdurate, inviolable, stone upon stone. Rather like your “so- called Gormenghast” (you notice that I use the same phrase again. The phrase that makes you cross?). For although you have learned, it seems, the art of making enemies (and this is indeed good for the soul), yet you are blind, deaf, and dumb when it comes to another language. Stark: dry: unequivocal: and cryptic: a thing of crusts and water. If you ask for flattery … Remember this in your travels. Now go … for God’s sake … GO!’
Titus lifted his eyes to his companion. Then he took three steps towards him. The scar on his cheekbone shone like silk in the moonlight.
‘Mr Muzzlehatch,’ he said.
‘What is it boy?’
‘I grieve for you.’
‘Grieve for this broken creature,’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘She is the weak of the world.’
Out of the silence came the far-away voice of the Black Rose. ‘Linen,’ it cried in a voice both peevish and beautiful. ‘Linen … white linen.’
‘She is as hot as fever can make her,’ muttered Muzzlehatch. ‘It is like holding embers in my arms. But there is Juno for a refuge, and a cat for your bearing; and beyond, to the world’s end.
‘The sleeping cat,’ he muttered with a catch in his throat, ‘did you ever see it … my little civet? They silenced him with all the rest. He moved like a wave of the sea. Next to my wolves, I loved him, Titus child. You have never seen such eyes.’
‘Hit me,’ cried Titus, ‘I’ve been a dog to you.’
‘Globules to that!’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘It’s time the Black Rose was in Juno’s hands.’
‘Ah, Juno; give her my love,’ said Titus.
‘Why?’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘You’ve only just retracted it! That’s no way to treat a lady. By hell it ain’t. Giving your love; taking your love; secreting it; exposing it … as though it were a game of hide and seek.’
‘But you have been in love with her yourself and have lost her. And now
‘True,’ said Muzzlehatch. ‘Touche, indeed. She has, after all, a haze about her. She is an orchard … a golden thing is Juno. Generous as the milky way, or the source of a great river. What would you say? Is she not wonderful?’
Titus turned his head quickly to the sky.
‘Wonderful? She
‘Must she?’ said Muzzlehatch.
There was a curious silence, and in this silence a cloud began to pass over the moon. It was not a large cloud so that there was little time to waste, and in the half-darkness the two friends moved away from one another, and began to hurry into the darkness as though they needed it, one in the direction of Juno’s home, the Black Rose in his arms, and the other moving rapidly to the north.
But before they became lost to one another in the final murk Titus stopped and looked back. The cloud had passed and he could see Muzzlehatch standing at the corner of the sleeping square. His shadow, and the shadow of the Black Rose in his arms, lay at his feet, and it was as though he was standing in a pool of black water. His head, rock-like, was bent over the poor frail creature in his arms. Then Titus saw him turn on his heel, and walk with long strides, his shadow skimming the ground beneath him, and then the moon disappeared and the silence was as intense as ever.
In this thick silence, the boy waited: for what he did not know: he just waited while a great unhappiness filled him; only to be dispersed, immediately, for a far-away voice cried out in the darkness:
‘Hullo there, Titus Groan! Prop up your chin, boy! We’ll meet again; no doubt of it – one day.’
‘Why not!’ cried Titus. ‘Thank you forever …’
But the sentence was broken by Muzzlehatch with another great shout,
‘Farewell Titus … Farewell my cocky boy! Farewell … farewell.’
SIXTY-FIVE
At first there was no sign of a head but after a while an acute observer might have concentrated his attention more and more upon a particular congestion of branches, and eventually discovered, deep in the interplay of leaf or tendril, a line that could be one thing only … the profile of Juno.
She had been sitting in her vine-arbour for a long while, hardly moving. Her servants had called her, but she had not heard them: or if she had, she made no response.
Three days ago her one-time lover, Muzzlehatch, had been hidden in her attic. Now, he was gone again. The wraith he had brought with him had been washed and put to bed, but had died the moment her head had touched the snowy pillow.
There had been the funeral; there had been questions to answer. Her lovely house had been filled by a swarm of officials, including Acreblade, the detective. Where was Titus? he had asked. Where was Muzzlehatch? She shook her head for hour after hour.
