The Book of Dust, Volume 1

by Philip Pullman

  A few teachers held out. Malcolm stayed behind after a woodwork class one day; he wanted to ask Mr. Croker about his one-way screw idea. Mr. Croker listened patiently, then looked around and, seeing the woodwork room empty except for the two of them, said, “I see you’re not wearing a badge, Malcolm.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any reason?”

  “I don’t like ’em, sir. I didn’t like her—that Miss Carmichael. And I did like Mr. Willis. What’s happened to him, sir?”

  “We haven’t been told.”

  “Is he going to come back?”

  “I hope so.”

  Mr. Croker’s dæmon, a green woodpecker, drilled vigorously into a waste piece of pine with a sound like a machine gun. Malcolm wanted to talk more about the badge business, but he didn’t want to get Mr. Croker into trouble.

  “These screws, sir—”

  “Oh, yes. You invented that idea yourself, did you?”

  “Yes, sir. But I can’t think of how to undo ’em.”

  “Well, someone beat you to it, Malcolm. Look…”

  Mr. Croker opened a drawer and found a little cardboard box of screws with ready-filed one-way heads, just like the one Malcolm had made in Mr. Taphouse’s workshop, but much neater.

  “Blimey,” said Malcolm. “And I thought I was the first person to think of ’em. But how d’you undo them?”

  “Well, you need a special tool. Hang on….”

  Mr. Croker fumbled through the drawer and brought out a tin box with half a dozen short steel rods in it. Each rod had a threaded end that narrowed to a point, and the other end was shaped to fit into a carpenter’s brace. They varied in thickness as much as the most common sizes of screws.

  Malcolm picked out the largest, and then saw something about the screw thread.

  “Oh! It goes backwards!”

  “That’s it. You drill a hole down the middle of the screw you want to get out, not very far, and then you screw one of these into it the same way as if you’re unscrewing, and once it bites, it’ll bring the original one out with it.”

  Malcolm was overcome with admiration. “That’s brilliant! That’s genius, that is!”

  He was so impressed that he very nearly told Mr. Croker about the wooden acorn that unscrewed the wrong way too. He stopped himself just in time.

  “Well, Malcolm,” said Mr. Croker, “I’m never going to use these. You’re a good craftsman—you take them, and the screws as well. Go on, they’re yours.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” said Malcolm. “That’s really kind. Thank you.”

  “That’s all right. Dunno how long I’ll last here. Just like to think these tools are in the hands of someone who appreciates ’em. Go on, bugger off now.”

  —

  By the end of the week, Mr. Croker had vanished too. So had Miss Davis. The school was placed in some difficulty, what with the need to replace them at such short notice, and Mr. Hawkins, the new head, spoke about it during assembly, choosing his words with care.

  “You will have noticed, boys and girls, that some of our teachers are no longer with us. Of course, it’s right and proper that the staff of a school should change from time to time, have a natural turnover, but it does create temporary difficulties. Perhaps it would be a good idea if this turnover came to a halt now, for a while, so we can settle down into our normal pattern of work again.”

  Everyone knew that this was a plea to the badge wearers, but of course he couldn’t beg them directly. Malcolm wondered whether it would work. As the week went past, he listened and watched, and soon he saw different factions emerging. One group was all for pushing on zealously, and talked openly about reporting Mr. Hawkins himself for speaking like that. Another group said that they should hold their hand and build on their first great success by reminding the teachers who was really in charge, and operating a series of public warnings to keep them in line.

  Eventually the second group seemed to prevail. No more teachers were denounced directly, but two or three were made to stand up in assembly and apologize for this or that misdeed.

  “I’m truly sorry that I forgot to start that lesson with a prayer.”

  “Let me apologize to the whole school for expressing doubt about the story of St. Alexander.”

  “I acknowledge that I was wrong to tell off three members of the league for what I thought was bad behavior during a lesson. I realize it wasn’t bad behavior at all, but a perfectly justified discussion about important matters. Please forgive me.”

  Malcolm told his parents about these extraordinary events, and they were angry, but not angry enough—or perhaps too busy—to do as some parents had done and go to the school and complain. One evening that week, some people were talking about it in the bar, and Malcolm’s father called him to come and tell them what he’d seen in Ulvercote Elementary, because it seemed that similar things were happening at other schools in the city.

  “Who’s behind it—that’s what I’d like to know,” said a man whose children went to West Oxford Elementary.

  “Have you heard who’s behind it, Malcolm?” asked Mr. Partridge, the butcher.

  “No,” said Malcolm. “The badge people just report who they want to, and things happen to them. There’s some parents been taken, as well as teachers.”

  “But who do they report to?”

  “I’ve asked, but they won’t tell me till I wear a badge.”

  The fact was that he’d more than once thought of joining the League of St. Alexander so that he’d know more about it, and have more to tell Dr. Relf. The thing that stopped him was that the badge wearers seemed to have to give up a lot of spare time to go to Church meetings, which again were secret and not to be spoken about, and Malcolm didn’t want to do that.

  There was one way he could find out, though. Eric, having dithered about joining, had finally committed himself, and now wore a badge proudly. He hadn’t changed much, of course, and Malcolm found that if he asked the right questions, Eric would tell him things that were supposed to be secret, because the pleasure of knowing secrets was doubled by telling them to people. Malcolm began by saying that he was interested in joining the league, but that he wasn’t sure about it. Soon Eric had told him most of what there was to know.

  “If you were going to denounce Mr. Johnson, like,” Malcolm said, naming a teacher whose pious fervor made him the least likely candidate, “who would you tell?”

  “Ah, well. There’s a proper procedure. You can’t just go and tell on someone you don’t like. That would be wrong. If you have sound reasons and clear knowledge of incorrect or wrongful behavior”—the way he said it made it sound like a formula he’d memorized—“you write their name on a piece of paper and send it to the Bishop.”

  “What bishop? The bishop of Oxford?”

  “No. The Bishop, he’s called. I think he’s the bishop of London, maybe. Or maybe somewhere else. You just write their name and send it to him.”

  “But anyone could do that. I could do that to Mrs. Blanchard for giving me detention.”

  “No, ’cause that’s not wrongful behavior. Not sinful, like. If she was to teach you atheism, though, that would be wrongful. You could name her then, all right.”

  Malcolm didn’t press any more on that occasion. It was like fishing; you had to be suitable, as Eric would have said.

  “You know Miss Carmichael, right,” Malcolm said the next day. “I think I seen her before she came to the school. I think she was at the priory talking to the nuns.”

  “Maybe she wants to get them to take in some teachers and people who need reeducating,” said Eric.

  “What’s reeducating?”

  “Oh, being taught what’s right.”

  “Oh. Is she the boss of the whole league?”

  “No. She’s a deacon. She can be a deacon but not a priest, because she’s a woman. I ’spect her boss is the Bishop.”

  “Is the Bishop the boss of the league?”

  “Well, I’m not s’posed to tell y
ou that,” said Eric, which only meant that he didn’t know. “Actually, I’m not s’posed to talk to you at all unless I’m persuading you to join the league.”

  “Well, you are,” said Malcolm. “Everything you say is persuading me.”

  “You going to wear a badge, then?”

  “Not quite yet. Maybe soon.”

  —

  Malcolm wasn’t going to find out what the woman had been doing at the priory until he spoke to the nuns, so on Thursday evening he ran there through the rain and knocked on the kitchen door. As soon as he got inside, he noticed a strong smell of paint.

  “Oh! Malcolm! You gave me a start,” said Sister Fenella.

  Malcolm had been careful about startling Sister Fenella ever since she’d told him she had a weak heart. When he was younger, he’d thought her heart was weak because she’d had it broken a long time ago, when she was a girl, and that’s why she’d become a nun. A young man had broken it, she’d told him. Malcolm saw now that she didn’t mean it literally, but the poor old lady was easily startled, and now she sat down and breathed quickly, her face pale.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I really didn’t think that would startle you. I’m sorry.”

  “There, there, dear, it’s all right. No harm done. You come to help me with these potatoes?”

  “Yes, I’ll do them,” he said, taking up the knife she’d dropped. “How’s Lyra?”

  “Oh, babbling away. She jabbers all the time to that dæmon, and he jabbers back—like a pair of swallows. I don’t know what they can be saying to each other, and I don’t suppose they do either, but it’s very pretty to hear.”

  “They’re making up a private language.”

  “Well, if it doesn’t turn into proper English soon, they might get stuck.”

  “Will they?”

  “No, dear, I don’t expect so, not really. All babies do that sort of thing. It’s part of how they learn.”

  “Oh…”

  The potatoes were old and full of black patches. Sister Fenella had just ignored that and dropped them in the pot as they were, but Malcolm cut around the worst bits. Sister Fenella began to grate some cheese.

  “Sister Fenella, who was that lady who was here the other day?”

  “Well, I’m not sure, Malcolm. She came to see Sister Benedicta, and they didn’t tell me why. I expect she had something to do with Child Services.”

  “What are they?”

  “They’re the people who make sure that children are being looked after properly, I think. I expect she came to check on us, to make sure we were doing it right.”

  “She came to our school,” said Malcolm, and he told Sister Fenella all about it. The old lady listened so intently that she stopped grating the cheese. “Have you ever heard of St. Alexander?” Malcolm said to end with.

  “Well, there are so many saints, it’s hard to remember them all. All doing God’s work in different ways.”

  “But he told on his parents, and they were executed.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t happen anymore. And it’s hard to understand some things, dear. Even if it doesn’t sound right, it doesn’t mean that good won’t come of it. These things are too deep for us to understand.”

  “I’ve done all these potatoes. Shall I do some more?”

  “No, that’s enough, dear. If you’d like to polish the silver…”

  But the kitchen door opened then, and Sister Benedicta came in.

  “I thought I heard you, Malcolm,” she said. “May I borrow him for a moment, Sister Fenella?”

  “Oh, of course, Sister, yes, do. Thank you, Malcolm.”

  “Evening, Sister Benedicta,” Malcolm said as he followed the nun down the corridor to her little parlor. He listened for Lyra’s babbling but heard nothing.

  “Sit down, Malcolm. Don’t worry—you’re not in trouble. I want you to tell me about that woman who was here the other day. I believe she’s been to your school. What did she want?”

  For the second time that evening, Malcolm told the story of the League of St. Alexander, and the headmaster, and the other teachers who’d gone missing, and the whole affair.

  Sister Benedicta listened without interrupting. Her expression was stern.

  “So what was she doing here, Sister Benedicta?” he said when he’d finished. “Was she asking about Lyra? Because she’s too young to join anything.”

  “Quite so. Miss Carmichael’s business with us is concluded, I hope. But I’m concerned to hear about these children who are being encouraged to behave badly. Why has nobody told this to a newspaper?”

  “I dunno. Maybe—”

  “Don’t know.”

  “I don’t know, Sister. Perhaps the newspapers aren’t allowed to print it.”

  “Yes, possibly so. Well, thank you, Malcolm. You’d better get back to your parents now.”

  “Can I see Lyra?”

  “Not now. She’s asleep. But look—come with me.”

  She led him back down the corridor and stopped at the door of the room Lyra had been in.

  “What d’you think of this?” she said.

  She opened the door and switched on the light. A miraculous change had taken place: instead of the gloomy paneling, the walls were painted a bright, cheerful cream, and there were some warm rugs on the floor.

  “I thought I could smell paint! This is lovely,” he said. “Is this her room for good now?”

  “It was wrong for a little child as it was. Too dark. This is better, don’t you think? What else do you think she might need in here?”

  “A little table and chair for when she’s older. Some nice pictures. And a bookshelf, ’cause I bet she’s going to like looking at books. She can teach her dæmon to read. And a toy box. And a rocking horse. And—”

  “Well, can you and Mr. Taphouse get on and make some of those things?”

  “Yes! I’ll start tonight. He’s got some lovely oak.”

  “He’s already gone home. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “Right. We’ll do that. I know exactly what she needs.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Sister Benedicta,” he said before she switched the light off, “why is Mr. Taphouse making shutters?”

  “Security,” she said. “Good night, Malcolm.”

  —

  He had a lot to tell Dr. Relf on Saturday. For a while he thought he wouldn’t be able to get to her, though, because the river was so full and fast-flowing that it was hard to make it to Duke’s Cut, and then the canal itself was brimful and disturbed by the burden of water that had flowed into it from the heavy rain of the past weeks.

  He found Dr. Relf filling sandbags. Several jute bags lay on a pile of sand in her little front garden, and she was trying unsuccessfully to fill the first one.

  “If you hold it,” said Malcolm, “I’ll put the sand in. It’s almost impossible for one person on their own. I suppose if you made a frame to hold it…”

  “No time for that,” said Dr. Relf.

  “Has there been a flood warning?”

  “A policeman came to the door last night. It seems they expect a flood soon. I just thought it would be sensible, so I got a builder to drop off some sand. But you’re right, it’s very difficult for one pair of hands.”

  “Have you been flooded before?”

  “No, but I haven’t lived here very long. I think the previous owner was.”

  “The river’s very full.”

  “Are you safe, in that boat of yours?”

  “Oh, yeah. Safer’n being on land. If you float on top of the water, it won’t harm you.”

  “I suppose so. But do take care.”

  “I always do. You ought to sew up the ends of these. You need a sailmaker’s needle.”

  “I’ll have to make do with what I’ve got. There, that’s the last one.”

  It had begun to rain hard, so having stacked the sandbags neatly beside the door, they hurried inside. Over the usual mugs of chocolatl, Malcolm, who was well rehearsed now, told h
er of the latest developments.

  “I did wonder,” he said, “whether it might be a good idea to join this league so’s I’d have more to tell you about it, but—”

  “No, don’t,” she said at once. “Remember, I just want to know what you find out in the normal course of things. Don’t go looking specially for anything. And I think if you got involved with these people, they wouldn’t let you leave. Just talk to Eric from time to time. But I’ve got some information for you, Malcolm. The person behind the League of St. Alexander is Lyra’s mother.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. The mother who didn’t want her. Mrs. Coulter, that’s her name.”

  “Maybe that was why Miss Carmichael was at the priory, to see if they were looking after Lyra properly so she could tell her mother….Blimey.”

  “I wonder. It doesn’t sound as if Mrs. Coulter is very concerned about the child one way or the other. Perhaps Miss Carmichael wanted to get hold of her for some other reason.”

  “Sister Benedicta got rid of her anyway.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Any news of the CCD men? Have you seen them around again?”

  “No, I en’t, and no one at the Trout has either, not since George Boatwright got away.”

  “I wonder how he’s getting on.”

  “I ’spect he’s wet,” said Malcolm. “If he’s hiding in the woods, he’s probably wet through and freezing cold.”

  “I expect he is. Now, what about your books, Malcolm?”

  When Malcolm showed Mr. Taphouse the new tool Mr. Croker had given him, and they’d tried it with the help of the anbaric drill, the old man was impressed enough to let him file down the heads of several screws for use in the shutters he was about to put up.

  “They won’t get in now, Malcolm,” he said, as if he’d thought of the idea himself.

  “But who are they?” said Malcolm.

  “Malefactors.”

  “What are malefactors?”

  “Evildoers. Don’t they teach you nothing at that school?”

  “Nothing like that. What sort of evildoers?”

  “Never you mind. Get on and do us another dozen screws, will you?”