The Book of Dust, Volume 1

by Philip Pullman

  “You have now. We’ll arrange for a new item of domestic apparatus—say, a new central heating boiler, something of that sort—to be delivered and installed in the next two or three days. It won’t be a boiler, but it will be a safe. Please keep the alethiometer in that when you’re not using it.”

  “Of course.” She thought, It had better be put upstairs, in case of a flood. And that reminded her of Malcolm’s warning, and she said, “Lord Nugent, is there an agent of Oakley Street called Coram van Texel?”

  “No,” he said.

  She thought, Interesting. One of them must be lying, and I think it’s Nugent. I can ask the alethiometer anyway. She went on: “Or a man called Gerard Bonneville? Has he anything to do with this business?”

  “Bonneville the experimental theologian?”

  “Was he a scientist? I didn’t know. He’s got a hyena dæmon with a missing leg.”

  “He was a leading researcher into the Rusakov business. Dust—that sort of thing. Then he lost his bearings and was jailed for a sex offense, I think. How have you come across him?”

  “Apparently, he’s in Oxford. He’s been to Malcolm’s father’s pub. Malcolm mentioned him the other day. One more thing: How will we contact one another? In the same way as before?”

  “No,” said Papadimitriou. “You and I will have to make some arrangement to meet regularly. In your new capacity as an independent scholar, let’s say, you’ve asked my advice about a book you want to write. We meet to talk about your research. Something like that. What are you doing this Friday afternoon?”

  “I would normally be working at home.”

  “Come to Jordan at three o’clock.”

  “Very well.”

  “And I wonder if you could make a start on something right away,” said Nugent.

  “Yes, I suppose I could,” she said, “now I’ve got this.”

  “It’s about the child at the priory. For some reason we don’t understand, she’s very important to the other side. Can you make general inquiries, or does it have to be a tightly focused question?”

  “Both—but the more tightly focused, the longer it takes.”

  “Make it general, then. We badly need to know why the child is important. If you could frame a question that would get an answer to that, it would be very helpful.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “One more thing,” Nugent went on. “Your young friend, the boy from the inn—Matthew, is it?”

  “Malcolm Polstead.”

  “Malcolm. We won’t put him in danger, but he could be valuable in a number of ways. Keep in touch with him. Tell him what you think he can keep quiet about. Pick up whatever you can.”

  Something had happened. The atmosphere in the room had changed quite suddenly. There was an air of— She couldn’t understand it. It was as if the others all knew a secret she didn’t, and they didn’t want to look at her. It couldn’t have been Lord Nugent’s words, which seemed to be innocuous; or was she missing what they meant?

  The moment passed. People got up, good-byes were said, coats found, thanks uttered, and Hannah put the alethiometer in its rosewood box in a cotton shopping bag and set off home.

  “Jesper, what happened then?” she said when they’d turned into the Woodstock Road.

  “They knew that he meant something underneath what he actually said, and they didn’t like it.”

  “Well, I got that far myself. I wonder what it was.”

  The next day, Malcolm found the nuns busy preparing for the Feast of St. Scholastica. It wasn’t actually a feast, as Sister Fenella had explained to a disappointed Malcolm on previous occasions; it was a day of celebration. But that meant long services in the oratory rather than well-filled tables in the refectory.

  However, Lyra obviously wasn’t expected to sing and pray with the sisters, and equally obviously couldn’t be left untended while their hymns and psalms and prayers ascended into the infinite, so Sister Fenella was excused the duty of praising the dead saint and detailed to look after the baby while she prepared the evening meal.

  Malcolm came into the kitchen just as the old lady was putting a lamb stew to simmer on the range. Pantalaimon, the baby dæmon, set up a brisk chirruping, and Malcolm moved closer so that Asta could perch on the rim of the crib and change into all the birds she knew, one after the other, making Lyra and her dæmon scream with laughter, as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

  “We haven’t seen you for a day or two, Malcolm,” said Sister Fenella. “What have you been up to?”

  “Lots of things. Sister Fenella, will Sister Benedicta be able to see me after the service?”

  “Not for long, dear. This is a busy day. Can I tell her anything for you?”

  “Well…I’ve got to warn her, but I can warn you as well, because it’s for all of you.”

  “Oh, dear. What are you warning us about?”

  She settled on her stool and drew the nearest cabbage towards her on the table. Malcolm watched her hands and the old knife unhurriedly shredding it, setting the outside leaves and the heart aside for stock, and reaching for another.

  “You know the river’s been high?” he said. “Well, everyone thinks that it’ll go down, now it’s stopped raining, but the rain’s going to come back and the river’s going to flood more than it’s done for years.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. A gyptian man told me. And they know the river, gyptians. They know all the waters in England. I just wanted to make sure Sister Benedicta knew, so she could make everything safe, specially Lyra. ’Cause you’re low-lying here on this bank. I told my dad, and he said you could all come and stay at the Trout, only it probably wouldn’t be holy enough.”

  She laughed and clapped her old red hands.

  “I’ve told other people,” Malcolm went on, “but no one believes me, I don’t think. I wish you had some boats here. If you could float, you’d be all right in a flood, but…”

  “We’d all be carried away,” said Sister Fenella. “But I shouldn’t worry. We had a big flood in…oh, fifty years ago—I was a novice—and all the garden was underwater and it came right in and the ground floor was three or four inches deep. I thought it was marvelously exciting, but the older nuns were distressed, so I didn’t say anything. Of course, I had nothing to be responsible for in those days. And it soon went down again. So I shouldn’t worry too much, Malcolm. Most things have happened before, and we’re all still here, by the grace of God.”

  “There was something else I wanted to tell Sister Benedicta,” said Malcolm. “But maybe it’ll wait till tomorrow. Is Mr. Taphouse here today?”

  “I haven’t seen him. I heard he wasn’t well.”

  “Oh…I was going to say something to him as well. Maybe I could go and see him, but I don’t know where he lives.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I’ll have to see Sister Benedicta after all, then. When do they finish worshipping?”

  It turned out that the long service finished in twenty minutes’ time, which gave the sisters an hour for recreation and exercise, or for getting on with their work in the garden or with the embroidery needle, before sitting down to eat. Malcolm decided to fill the time by teaching Lyra how to talk.

  “Now, Lyra, see, I’m Malcolm. That’s easy to say. Go on, have a go. Mal-colm.”

  She stared at him solemnly. Pantalaimon became a mole and buried himself in her blankets, and Asta laughed.

  “No, don’t laugh,” said Malcolm. “Try it, Lyra. Mal-colm.”

  She frowned and dribbled.

  “Well, you’ll get the hang of it eventually,” he said, patting her cheeks dry with a tea towel. “Try Asta. Go on. As-ta.”

  She watched him cautiously and said nothing at all.

  “Well, she’s very advanced for her age, anyway,” said Malcolm. “It’s really clever for her dæmon to be a mole. How’d they know about moles?”

  “That’s a mystery,” said the old nun. “Only the good Lord knows the answ
er to that, but that’s not surprising, because after all He created everything.”

  “I remember being a mole,” said Geraint, her old dæmon, who normally said very little and just watched everything with his head to one side. “When I was frightened, I used to be a mole.”

  “But how did you know about moles?” said Malcolm.

  “You just feel mole-ish,” said Asta.

  “Hmm,” said Malcolm. “Look, he’s coming up again.”

  Pan, no longer a mole but now a rabbit, emerged from the blankets, very close to Lyra, for safety, but very curious.

  “Tell you what, Lyra,” Malcolm said. “You can teach Pan how to say Malcolm.”

  The baby and the dæmon gabbled cautiously together. Then Asta became a monkey and stood on her hands, and they both laughed.

  “Well, you can laugh, even if you can’t talk,” said Malcolm. “I ’spect you’ll learn soon. What about Sister Fenella? Can you say that? Sis-ter Fen-el-la?”

  The little girl turned her head to Sister Fenella and gave a broad happy smile, and her dæmon became a squirrel like Geraint and chattered with glee.

  “She’s really clever,” said Malcolm. He was full of admiration.

  At that moment, he heard a stir of talk in the corridor, and the kitchen door opened to let in Sister Benedicta.

  “Ah! Malcolm! I wanted to talk to you. Glad you’re here. All well, Sister?”

  She meant, All well with Lyra? but she didn’t really listen to the answer. Another nun, Sister Katarina, was coming to keep an eye on the baby while Sister Fenella went to the oratory for a private service of her own, or so Malcolm gathered. Sister Katarina was young and pretty, with large dark eyes, but she was nervous, and she made Lyra nervous too. The baby was really only perfectly happy with Sister Fenella.

  “Come along, Malcolm,” said Sister Benedicta. “I want a quick word.”

  It didn’t sound as if he was in trouble. It wasn’t that kind of summons.

  “I wanted to tell you something too, Sister,” he said as she closed the office door behind them.

  “In a minute. You remember that man you told me about? With the three-legged dæmon?”

  “I saw him the other night,” said Malcolm. “I was going through the upstairs bedrooms at home looking for something and…”

  He described what he’d seen. She listened close, frowning.

  “A broken shutter? No, it’s not broken. Someone forgot to close it. Never mind that. You saw what he was doing to his dæmon—clearly the man is mentally ill, Malcolm. What I wanted to tell you was to keep away from him. If you see him anywhere, just go in the opposite direction. Don’t get drawn into conversation. I know how friendly you are with everyone, and that’s a virtue, but you have to use judgment as well, which is another virtue. That man is not capable of reason, poor thing, and his obsessions can damage other people, just as they’ve damaged his dæmon. Now, what did you want to tell me? Was it about him?”

  “Partly. But the other part is that there’s going to be a flood. A gyptian man told me.”

  “Oh, nonsense! The weather’s changed. It’ll be spring before we know it. Thank the good Lord, all that rain’s over and done with.”

  “But he explained—”

  “A lot of what the gyptians say is superstition, Malcolm. Listen to it politely, but again—use your judgment. All the forecasts from the Weather Office agree: the heavy rains are over, and there’s no danger of flood.”

  “But the gyptians know the rivers and the weather—”

  “Thank you for passing on his warning. But I think we’re going to be safe. Was there anything else?”

  “Is Mr. Taphouse all right?”

  “He’s a little poorly. Now that all the shutters are up, I’ve told him to rest for a few days. Off you go, Malcolm. Remember what I told you about the man.”

  She was very hard to argue with. Not that he wanted to argue; all he was trying to do was warn, as Mr. Van Texel had asked him to do.

  —

  That night, he had another dream about wild dogs. Or perhaps it was the same dream: a pack of wild dogs, all kinds of dogs, running with furious speed across a bare plain this time, intent on hunting and killing something he couldn’t see. And he was relishing it. It was frightening and exciting at the same time, and he woke sweating and breathing fast, and lay holding tightly to Asta, who, of course, had been dreaming the same dream. He was still thinking about it when they got up much later to go to school.

  —

  Having had no success at warning the nuns about the flood, Malcolm tried with his teachers. He had the same response. It was nonsense—it was superstition—the gyptians knew nothing, or they were up to something, or they weren’t to be trusted.

  “I dunno,” said Malcolm to Robbie and Eric and Tom in the playground. “Some people just don’t want to be warned.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look likely, this flood,” said Robbie.

  “River’s still high,” said Tom, who was a faithful follower of whatever Malcolm said. “It wouldn’t take much more rain….”

  “My dad says you can’t believe anything the gyptians say,” announced Eric. “There’s always a hidden gender with them.”

  “A what?” said Robbie.

  “They got secret plans that no one else knows about.”

  “Don’t talk daft,” said Malcolm. “What secret plan could this be?”

  “I dunno,” said Eric righteously. “That’s why it’s secret.”

  “You stopped wearing your league badge,” said Robbie. “I bet there’s a secret agenda behind that, an’ all.”

  In answer Eric slowly reached up to the lapel of his blazer and turned it back with a finger and thumb. Pinned underneath was the little enamel lamp of the League of St. Alexander.

  “Why’re you hiding it?” said Malcolm.

  “Those of us who have reached the second degree wear it like that,” said Eric. “There’s a few of us in school, but not many.”

  “At least if you wear it on the outside, people can see you belong,” said Robbie. “But hiding it’s sneaky.”

  “Why?” said Eric, honestly astonished.

  “ ’Cause if you see someone’s wearing a badge, you can just not say anything they could report,” said Malcolm. “But if they hide it, you could find yourself in trouble without knowing why.”

  “What is this ‘second degree’ anyway?” said Robbie.

  “I’m not allowed to tell you.”

  “Bet you will, though,” said Malcolm. “Bet you’ll tell us before the end of the week.”

  “I won’t,” said Eric.

  “Yes, you will,” said Robbie and Tom together.

  Eric stalked away, offended.

  The influence of the league had stabilized since its first big successes. Mr. Hawkins, the deputy head who had compromised with it at once, was confirmed as successor to the old headmaster, who had disappeared. Eric said Mr. Willis was at a special training camp, but he was believed as much as he usually was, so no one knew for sure. Some of the teachers who had left in protest or by being required to take leave had come back, sullen or chastened; others had vanished and been replaced. The real authority in the school was held by the never-quite-named, never-quite-described, never-quite-admitted-to group of senior pupils forming the first and most influential members of the league. They met with Mr. Hawkins every day, and their decisions or orders were announced in the next day’s assembly. Somehow it was implied that any such proclamation was the direct word of God, so that to disobey or protest was to blaspheme. Many pupils got into trouble before they understood this. Now, though, the understanding had permeated everywhere.

  The pupils in this half-secret group were helped and guided by two or three adults, who were rumored to be special governors. They never spoke in assembly, never taught any lessons, hardly ever spoke to a pupil; they patrolled the corridors making notes and were treated with particular obsequiousness by the staff, but no children were told their names or
what their functions were. It just became understood.

  About half the school had joined the league; of those, a few had fallen away, and of the rest, a few had given in and joined. For the moment nothing more had been seen of the woman who had first come to tell them about it, and absolutely nothing had been said in the newspapers. You could spend quite some time in the school and never hear it mentioned; but all the same, its existence became known to everyone. It was as if it had always been there, as if it would be strange for a school not to be pervaded by this half-enthralling, half-frightening miasma. Lessons went on as normal, though each lesson was now preceded by a prayer. The pictures that had hung in the corridors and classrooms—mostly reproductions of famous paintings, or paintings of historical scenes—had been taken down and replaced with posters bearing quotations from the Bible in rather hectoring color. Few pupils were openly naughty anymore—there were fewer fights in the playground, for instance—but everyone seemed guiltier.

  —

  On Saturday, Malcolm took La Belle Sauvage for her first extended trip since Mr. Van Texel had brought her back. It was just as the gyptian had said: the little craft was stiffer, more responsive, and very much slippier through the water than she’d ever felt before. Malcolm was delighted; he thought he’d be able to paddle for miles without tiring, and camp anywhere, more or less invisibly, and altogether own the water in a quite new way.

  “When we need a big boat,” he said to the kingfisher-formed Asta as she sat on the gunwale beside him, “we’ll go to that gyptian boatbuilder and he can make it for us.”

  “How will we find him? And what would it cost?”

  “Dunno. We could ask Mr. Van Texel.”

  “How’ll we find where he is?”

  “Dunno that either. I wonder if he was a spy,” Malcolm said after a while. “I mean, Oakley Street…”

  Asta didn’t reply. She was gazing at a small fish. They were on the canal now, which was high itself, but stiller than the river, of course. Malcolm could feel his dæmon’s eagerness to plunge into the water and catch the fish, and silently urged her on; but she held back.