Gormenghast

       '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.

       The scream of the wheels grew fainter and fainter.

       It was some while before the silence was broken. None present had heard that high note in the Headmaster's voice before. It had chilled them. Nor had they ever heard him at such length, or in so mystical a vein. It was horrible to think that there was more to him than the nullity which they had so long accepted. However, a voice did at last break the pensive silence.

       'A very dry "do" indeed,' said Crust.

       'Some kind of light, for grief's sake!' shouted Perch-Prism. 'What 'can' the time be?' whimpered Flannelcat.

       Someone had started a fire in the grate, using for tinder a number of Flannelcat's copybooks, which he had been unable to collect from the floor. The globe of the world was put on top, which, being of some light wood, gave within a few minutes an excellent light, great continents peeling off and oceans bubbling. The memorandum that Slypate was to be caned, which had been chalked across the coloured face, was purged away and with it the boy's punishment, for Mulefire never remembered and Slypate never reminded him.

       'My, my!' said Cutflower, 'if the Head's sub-conscious ain't self-conscious call me purblind, la!... call me purblind! What goings-on, la!'

       'What is the time, gentlemen? What can it be, if you please?' said Flannelcat, groping for his exercise-books on the floor. The scene had unnerved him, and what books he had recovered from the floor kept falling out of his arms.

       Mr Shrivell pulled one of them out of the fire and, holding it by a f1ameless corner, waved it for a moment before the clock.

       'Forty minutes to go,' he said. 'Hardly worth it... or is it? Personally, I think I'll just...'

       'So will I, la!' cried Cutflower. 'If my class isn't either on fire by now or flooded out, call me witless, la!'

       The same idea must have been at the back of most of their minds. for there was a general movement towards the door, only Opus Fluke remaining in his decrepit arm-chair, his loaf-like chin directed at the ceiling, his eyes closed and his leathery mouth describing a line as fatuous as it was indolent. A few moments later the husky, whispering sound of a score of flying gowns as they whisked along the walls of corridors presaged the turning of a score of door-handles and the entry into their respective class-rooms of the professors of Gormenghast.