The Dark Crystal (3 page)
Authors: A. C. H. Smith
T
he storm continued to rage around the castle of the Dark Crystal. Through the dark halls of the castle swaggered the most massive and brutal of the Skeksis: skekUng the Garthim-Master, decked in a robe of armor pieces that glittered and rattled as he marched. His spurs struck sparks from the stone floor. The mad, cold eyes and the yellow fangs, revealed in a characteristic sneer, aroused a prehistoric fear in all who saw him, even in the other Skeksis. He was unusual among them in having held his position ever
since their reign had begun. As their numbers had dwindled, from eighteen to ten, Skeksis had been promoted to fill the offices that had fallen vacant. But this was always and ever the Garthim-Master, from the first the strongest and most violent of them. The Garthim, he maintained, were his creation. To him was due all honor for the foul instrument by means of which the Skeksis had tyrannized the land. They were the strike force of the Skeksis, huge and black-carapaced, mighty-clawed, like giant fleas with their dangling tentacles. Always some were standing like sentries along the corridors of the castle, lifeless until activated by a command. Others were held in reserve in a pit beneath the castle floors. The Garthim were scarcely creatures at all, more like the impulses of a cruel brain made over into crustacean objects, nightmare crabs, swift monsters designed for one purpose only: destruction. For any one of them there was no singular noun. They were the plural extensions of one will of evil. The Garthim-Master took fierce pride in them.
he storm continued to rage around the castle of the Dark Crystal. Through the dark halls of the castle swaggered the most massive and brutal of the Skeksis: skekUng the Garthim-Master, decked in a robe of armor pieces that glittered and rattled as he marched. His spurs struck sparks from the stone floor. The mad, cold eyes and the yellow fangs, revealed in a characteristic sneer, aroused a prehistoric fear in all who saw him, even in the other Skeksis. He was unusual among them in having held his position ever
since their reign had begun. As their numbers had dwindled, from eighteen to ten, Skeksis had been promoted to fill the offices that had fallen vacant. But this was always and ever the Garthim-Master, from the first the strongest and most violent of them. The Garthim, he maintained, were his creation. To him was due all honor for the foul instrument by means of which the Skeksis had tyrannized the land. They were the strike force of the Skeksis, huge and black-carapaced, mighty-clawed, like giant fleas with their dangling tentacles. Always some were standing like sentries along the corridors of the castle, lifeless until activated by a command. Others were held in reserve in a pit beneath the castle floors. The Garthim were scarcely creatures at all, more like the impulses of a cruel brain made over into crustacean objects, nightmare crabs, swift monsters designed for one purpose only: destruction. For any one of them there was no singular noun. They were the plural extensions of one will of evil. The Garthim-Master took fierce pride in them.
Now he was marching to claim the reward he had been awaiting all these centuries: the throne. Everyone could see that the Emperor was dying. This time, no other Skeksis would be able to resist the Garthim-Master’s accession.
As he approached the ornate doorway of the Emperor’s bedchamber, he was startled by the sudden appearance of skekSil the Chamberlain, who insinuated himself into the middle of the corridor in front of him. In spite of himself, the Garthim-Master hissed, in a moment of alarm, and hesitated. Then he
snorted and strode resolutely on, past the only Skeksis who might oppose him as the new Emperor.
snorted and strode resolutely on, past the only Skeksis who might oppose him as the new Emperor.
The Chamberlain stayed where he was, twisting his scrawny neck around to watch the Garthim-Master. He turned then and followed him toward the doorway, his moist and unctuous body more obsequiously bowed as he entered the imperial bedchamber. Under his arm he carried scrolls and administrative papers. He knew the dying Emperor would be in no condition to attend to them, but he wished to remind the other Skeksis of his official position: the Chief Secretary, and therefore next in line to the throne.
He eyed the rest of the Skeksis, assembled around the sumptuous bed, and smiled at each one of them with oily suspicion. The Garthim-Master’s ambition was plain, but would any of the others make a bid?
Not the Slave-Master, with his patch to cover a mucid eye socket and his hook for one hand. He had no fitting experience for it, no imagination, no nobility at all. Certainly not skekAyuk the Gourmand, who was too slovenly and slothful to care. Nor skekEkt the Ornamentalist, whose decadence and perversion could never command obedience. And least of all skekOk the Scroll-Keeper, that vacant idiot who continually mumbled to himself.
That left three to consider, and scuttle. SkekShod the Treasurer was no dangerous threat, being administratively subordinate to the Chamberlain and knowing nothing of executive responsibility. All he knew was how to bite gold. SkekTek the Scientist, however, was another matter. The others feared him because they could understand nothing of his work.
He had amputated his own leg and arm in order to fit himself with appliances he had invented that were more powerful than the natural limbs. Likewise, he had cut out part of his circulatory system and substituted a series of exposed, transparent tubes in order to study the operation of his own blood and juices. Some thought him demented, and he was distrusted by all. Surely he would not be in contention.
Finally, there was skekZok the Ritual-Master. Yes, the Chamberlain aimed a special smile at him. With his hieratic dignity and his unmatched knowledge of the symbols, the cards, the auguries, and the rituals, there was no denying that the Ritual-Master could be a formidable contender. And yet, he had never given any indication of coveting the throne. Until now, at least, he had always seemed satisfied with the spiritual, cabalistic power he unquestionably exercised. He might well have no taste for the fight, which would surely be a vicious one, were the Garthim-Master to persist in his vain, absurd pretensions.
The Emperor lay on his bed, his face dark against the white pillow and growing darker all the time, like a withering plum. The Skeksis knew what that portended. The imperial eyes were dull, unfocused. His breath rasped in his long throat, and his mouth gaped for air. Across the counterpane his hands were rambling, fingers twitching, as though they were seeking something firm to grasp. In one hand was the jeweled scepter, loosely held. Nine pairs of eyes watched it. None of the Skeksis said a word, but all of them were raptly attentive to every sound and motion.
The Chamberlain edged closer, in readiness.
When the scepter rolled out of the Emperor’s feeble hand and lay on the counterpane near the edge of the bed, the Chamberlain moved in. He stretched out his hand for it, extending the long talons. The Garthim-Master jerked, taken by surprise. He stiffened, prepared to engage in an unseemly tussle with the Chamberlain.
But the Emperor’s eyes were suddenly wide open and ablaze. His neck whipped from the pillow; and his jaws, full of yellow teeth, snapped like a trap an inch away from the Chamberlain’s outstretched hand.
The Chamberlain withdrew his talon with as much dignity as he could muster. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he said in the wheedling voice that all the others loathed, “I merely wished to restore the symbol of supreme office to your hand, where it rightfully belongs. It would be shameful were we to allow the scepter of state to fall on the ground.”
The Garthim-Master laughed under his breath, loudly enough to be heard at the end of the corridor.
The Emperor’s spiteful lunge proved to be the last action of a life passionately devoted to malevolence. He collapsed back onto the pillow and fell into a coma. The only evidence of enduring life was a small rattling noise in his chest. Then that stopped.
A black membrane slid over his eyes. Outside the castle, the last of the thunder died away.
Looking furtively around, the Chamberlain caught the eyes of both the Garthim-Master and the Ritual-Master, each of them similarly furtive. Well, now he knew, then. Three of them. If only the vicious old brute had confirmed the Chamberlain’s natural succession there would have been no trouble. The Garthim-Master, like all who are competent at giving orders, was also punctilious in obeying them. As for the Ritual-Master, he would not have dared to question the expiring Emperor’s command, else all his authority would have slipped from him, founded as it was on the mysteries of hierarchy, precedence, and predetermination. There would be a contest now.
Apart from the aspirants, the other six Skeksis had kept their gaze fixed upon their defunct Emperor. His corpse was decomposing with remarkable haste, having no soul to arrest the process. It was like the creation of volcanic rock within the space of a minute or two. His flesh seemed to boil, rise, blacken, and then transform into rock that rapidly developed gaping cracks and festering caves. Soon it crumbled into pebbles. A sour, grey dust thinly filmed the air.
N
ight came in fast, faster than an eye could adapt itself to starlight, and, later, to the small, pale-mauve moon. For a while the land was immersed in a darkness like ink. It was the time when every creature would fall quiet.
From deep within the labyrinthine bowels of the castle, strains of solemn music arose. It was a dirge in three-part harmony, sung by a chorus of slaves situated in choir stalls at the side of the mausoleum. All the Skeksis’ slaves were captured Pod People, small and simple folk. Their voices had been alto in their natural state. Some of them, however, had been converted into lower registers by the Scientist, who, for hundreds of years, had experimented with the excision and implantation of vocal cords, and now felt he had achieved just the right blending of parts.
He had no ear for music himself, but the Slave-Master did claim to have one and had taken responsibility for selecting and providing promising Pod specimens to the Scientist. The results of the experiments were delivered over to the Ornamentalist, who was in charge of rehearsals. He made a further selection, incorporating those he liked into the chorus and destroying the rest. The final arbiter was the Ritual-Master, since the chorus sang only on ritual occasions. A harsh judge, he had been known to cross the chamber and tear the head off a singer who failed to sing his part in tune. That it had happened less often of late was the reason why the Scientist felt that, in this field of experiment, he had been successful.
It had been the Scroll-Keeper’s job to collect the Emperor’s remains and coagulated fluids from among the vacated robes lying on the deathbed, where the scepter lay beside them. The remains were wound in cerements and sealed inside an ebony casket, tetrahedral in shape, bearing on all four sides silver icons of the triangle containing three concentric circles. The casket was then borne into the mausoleum by the Ritual-Master, the Chamberlain, and the Garthim-Master, one at each corner. The other six Skeksis followed in single file: the strutting Slave-Master, the limping Scientist, the Treasurer wringing his hands, the Ornamentalist dressed in peacock silks and rich jeweled pieces, the Gourmand, wiping the corners of his mouth, and last the Scroll-Keeper, who had arrived late.
In arranging the procession, the Ritual-Master, the Chamberlain, and the Garthim-Master had disagreed over which of them should precede the others by bearing the foremost corner of the casket. The Ritual-Master argued that he was officiating at the ceremony; the Chamberlain pointed out that, at least for the present, he was the senior functionary of the state; and the Garthim-Master insisted that he had the chief-executive responsibility for maintaining order and security. In view of the sepulchral occasion, they found a temporary compromise, although each of them knew that it would not long outlast the Emperor’s funerary casket.
As they trod the spiral maze of the mausoleum floor, the three of them also wheeled gravely around the axis of the casket in their hands, in a stately measure. The Pod People slaves, singing in the choir stalls, would have laughed at the spectacle had they been capable of laughter.
The procession threaded its spiral way to the center of the mausoleum, which was lit by urns whose flickerings cast grotesque shadows across the great vaulted room.
The Ritual-Master, the Chamberlain, and the Garthim-Master laid the casket on a broad obsidian catafalque, draped in black silk shot through with threads of gold. The Ritual-Master assumed his position at the head of the catafalque. The Chamberlain and the Garthim-Master withdrew to join the other Skeksis in a circle around the catafalque.
The Ritual-Master raised his eyes and intoned,
“Kekkon, Kekkon, Yazakaide, Akura, Kasdaw.”
“Kekkon, Kekkon, Yazakaide, Akura, Kasdaw.”
The rest repeated it after him.
Then the Ritual-Master shook his bony claws free of his robes and pointed at the Treasurer, who stood immediately to his right in the circle.
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