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
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.
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
