On the other bank of the little river there was…nothing to see at all. A thick fog covered everything beyond the edge of the water. From time to time something would make the fog swirl and seem about to part, but it never did. Whether the opposite bank was like this one—cultivated, beautiful, wealthy—or an empty desert, they couldn’t tell.
So Malcolm and Alice sat amazed on the garden side of the river, pointing to this marvel and that: a glowing fountain, a tree laden with golden pears, a school of rainbow-colored fish that sprang up out of the stream, all moving as one, and turned their heads to look at them with their goggle eyes.
Malcolm stood up, feeling stiff and painful, and Alice said, “Where you going?”
“I’m just going to bail the canoe out. Put things out to dry.”
The fact was that he was dizzy with all this strangeness, and he hoped that by attending to something dull and workmanlike he’d regain a little balance.
He took out all the wet things, the blankets and pillows and Lyra’s sodden clothes, and laid them flat on the planks of the landing. He inspected the tin and found the biscuits shaken to pieces but not damp, and the matches were safe as well. Then he unrolled the coal-silk tarpaulin and laid that out to dry on the grass. The rucksack with its precious cargo, which he’d had over his shoulder, was wet only on the outside; the canvas had been stout enough to protect the folders of paper, and the alethiometer was snug in its oilskin.
He laid everything carefully on the little wooden jetty and made his way back to the others. Alice was playing with Lyra, holding her up so her feet touched the ground, pretending to make her walk. The child was still in high spirits, and blackbird Ben was helping Pantalaimon fly as high as he could, which was not quite high enough to reach the lowest branches of a light-bearing tree.
“What d’you want to do?” said Alice when Malcolm came back.
“Go and see that house. See if anyone there can tell us where Lord Asriel lives. You never know. They all look like lords and ladies.”
“Come on, then. You carry her for a bit.”
“We might find something to eat too. And somewhere to change her.”
Lyra was lighter than the rucksack but awkwarder, because the rucksack’s weight was taken on the shoulders, whereas carrying Lyra, Malcolm soon remembered, involved both arms. Nor was she very fragrant. Alice happily took the rucksack, and Malcolm went along beside her, with Lyra squirming and complaining in his arms.
“No, you can’t go with Alice all the time,” he told her. “You got to put up with me. As soon as we get up to that pretty house on the hill, see, with all those lights, we’ll change your nappy and give you a feed. That’s all you want. Won’t be long now….”
But it was going to take longer than they thought. The path to the palace led through the gardens, among the little trees with lights, past the beds of roses and lilies and other flowers, past a fountain with blue water and then another with water that sparkled and a third that sprayed up not water but something like eau de cologne—and after all that, the travelers seemed not a yard closer to the building on the hill. They could see every window, every column, every one of the steps leading to the great open door and the brightly lit space inside; they could see people moving about behind the tall windows; they could even hear the sound of music, as if a ball was in progress; but they were just as far from the palace as they were when they started.
“This path must be laid out like a sodding maze,” said Alice.
“Let’s go straight across the grass,” said Malcolm. “If we keep it right in front of us, we can’t go wrong.”
So they tried that. If they came to a path, they crossed it. If they came to a fountain, they went round it and carried straight on. If they came to a flower bed, they went right through it. And still they were no closer.
“Oh, bollocks,” said Alice, dropping the rucksack on the grass. “This is driving me mad.”
“It’s not real,” said Malcolm. “Not normal, anyway.”
“There’s someone coming. Let’s ask them.”
Wandering towards them was a little group of two men and two women. Malcolm put Lyra down on the grass; she began to wail, so Alice wearily picked her up. Malcolm waited on the path for the people to come closer. They were young and elegant, dressed for a ball, the women in long gowns that left their arms and shoulders bare, the men in black-and-white evening dress, and they each carried a glass. They were laughing and talking in that light, happy way that Malcolm had seen lovers doing, and their bird dæmons fluttered around or settled on their shoulders.
“Excuse me,” he said as they approached, “but…”
They ignored him and walked closer. Malcolm stepped right in front of them.
“Sorry to bother you, but d’you know how we can—”
They took no notice whatsoever. It was as if he didn’t exist, except as an obstacle in the path. Two went on one side of him, laughing and chatting, and two went on the other, hand in hand, murmuring into each other’s ears. Asta became a bird and flew up to talk with their dæmons.
“They won’t listen! They don’t seem as if they can see us at all!” she said.
“Excuse me! Hello!” Malcolm said more loudly, and ran around in front of them again. “We need to know how to get to the house up there, whatever it is. Can you…”
And again they walked around him, taking no notice. It was exactly as if he was invisible, inaudible, impalpable. He picked up a little stone from the path and threw it, and it hit one of the men on the back of the head, but it might as well have been a molecule of air, for all the notice he took.
Malcolm looked back at Alice and spread his hands. She was scowling.
“Rude sods,” she said.
Lyra was crying properly now. Malcolm said, “I’ll light a fire. Then we can warm some water for her, at least.”
“Where’s the canoe? Can we find our way back to it, or is that going to play tricks with us as well?”
“It’s just there—look,” he said, pointing back fifty yards or so. “All that walking, and we hardly got anywhere. Maybe it’s magic. It doesn’t make any bloody sense anyway.”
He found that he could return to the canoe in just a few steps. Somehow that wasn’t surprising. He gathered everything they needed for the child and made his way back to Alice. He plucked some twigs from the nearest tree and broke off a few short branches, shredding the twigs and placing them as well as he could before striking a match. The fire caught at once. He snapped the branches into shorter pieces, and it was easy, as if they had been designed to break to exactly the right length, and to be dry enough to burn too, just off the tree.
“It doesn’t seem to mind us making a fire. It’s only going to the house it doesn’t want us doing. I’ll get some water.”
The fountain he walked to was closer than he thought, the water fresh and clean as he filled the saucepan. They’d taken some bottles of water from the pharmacy—it seemed very long ago now—and he refilled those as well.
“Everything’s in favor of us, except the house and the people,” said Asta.
Several people had walked past the fire, and not one had stopped to ask about it or tell them off. Malcolm had built it on the grass only a few feet from one of the main paths, but, like him, it seemed to be invisible. More young lovers, older men and women too, grave gray-haired statesman-looking figures, grandmotherly women in old-fashioned gowns, middle-aged people full of power and responsibility—all kinds of guests, and not only guests: waiters with trays of fresh glasses of wine or plates of canapés moved here and there among them. Malcolm lifted one of the plates away as the waiter went past and took it to Alice.
“I’m going to change her first,” she said, her mouth full of a smoked-salmon sandwich. “She’ll be more comfortable then. I’ll feed her after.”
“D’you need more water? That’ll be too hot, what’s in the pan now.”
But it was exactly right to wash her with. Alice opened Lyra’s garments,
mopped her clean, dried her easily in the warm air. Then she went to look for somewhere to put the dirty nappy while Malcolm played with the child and fed her bits of smoked salmon. Lyra spat them out, and when Malcolm laughed at her, she frowned and clamped her mouth shut.
When Alice came back, she said, “Have you seen any rubbish bins here?”
“No.”
“Nor’ve I. But when I wanted one, there it was.”
It was just one more puzzle. The saucepan had boiled and the water had cooled enough for Lyra’s bottle, so Alice filled it and started to feed her. Malcolm wandered about the grass, looking at the little trees with glowing blossoms and listening to the birds that flew and sang in the branches as prettily as nightingales.
Asta flew up to join them, and soon came back.
“Just like you and the people on the path!” she said. “They didn’t seem to see me!”
“Were they young birds or grown-up ones?”
“Grown-up ones, I think. Why?”
“Well, everyone we’ve seen is grown up.”
“But it’s a sort of grand evening cocktail party kind of thing, or a ball, something like that. There wouldn’t be any kids around anyway.”
“Still,” said Malcolm.
They went back to Alice.
“Here, you do it,” she said.
He took Lyra, who had no time to complain before he plugged the bottle in again. Alice stretched out full-length on the grass. Ben and Asta lay down too, both snakes, each one trying to be longer.
“He never used to fool around,” said Alice quietly, meaning her dæmon.
“Asta fools around all the time.”
“Yeah. I wish…” Her voice faltered.
“What?” he said after a few moments.
She looked at Ben and, seeing him fully occupied with Asta, said quietly, “I wish I knew when he’d stop changing and settle.”
“What d’you think happens when they stop changing?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean, will they stop being able to do it suddenly one day, or will they just do it less and less?”
“Dunno. My mum always said, ‘Don’t worry about it, it’ll just happen.’ ”
“What would you like him to settle as?”
“Summing poisonous,” she said decisively.
He nodded. More people came past, all kinds of people, and among them were faces he thought he remembered, but they might have been customers at the Trout, or people he’d seen in dreams. They might even have been friends from school who’d grown up and were now middle-aged, which would account for the fact that they looked familiar but strange. And there was a young man who looked so much like Mr. Taphouse, only fifty years younger, that Malcolm almost jumped up and greeted him.
Alice was lying on her side watching them all go by.
“Can you see people you know?” he said.
“Yeah. I thought I was asleep.”
“Are the young ones older and the old ones younger?”
“Yeah. And some of them are dead.”
“Dead?”
“I just seen my gran.”
“D’you think we’re dead?”
Alice was silent for a few moments, and then she said, “I hope not.”
“Me too. I wonder what they’re all doing here. And who the other people are, the ones we don’t know.”
“Maybe they’re people we will know.”
“Or else…maybe it’s the world where that fairy lady came from. Maybe these people are all like her. It feels a bit like that.”
“Yeah,” she said. “It does. That’s what it is. Except they can’t see us, like she could….”
“But we were above the ground then, in our world, so we’d’ve been more solid, like. Down here we’re probably invisible to them.”
“Yeah. That’s probably it. But we better be careful all the same.”
She yawned and rolled over onto her back.
Not to be left out, Lyra yawned as well. Pantalaimon tried to be a snake like the other two, but gave up after half a minute and became a mouse instead, and cuddled close against Lyra’s neck. She was asleep in a moment, and once Ben had taken his greyhound shape and stretched out against Alice’s side, Alice was too.
Without knowing why he was doing it, Malcolm knelt down beside the sleeping Alice and looked at her face. He knew it well, but he’d never looked at her closely before because she would have shoved him away; he felt a little guilty doing it now, while she was unconscious.
But he was so curious. The little frown that lived between her eyebrows had vanished; it was a softer face altogether. Her mouth was relaxed, and her whole expression was complex and subtle. There was a sort of kindness in it, and a sort of lazy enjoyment—those were the words he found to describe it. A hint of a mocking smile lay in the flesh around her eyes. Her lips, narrow and compressed when she was awake, were looser and fuller in sleep, and almost smiling, like her sleeping eyes. Her skin too—or what did ladies call it? her complexion?—was fine and silky, and in her cheeks was a faint flush, as if she was hot, or as if she was blushing at a dream.
It was too close. He felt he was doing wrong. He sat up and looked away. Lyra stirred and murmured, and he stroked her forehead and found it hot, like Alice’s face. He wished he could stroke Alice’s cheeks, but that image was too troubling altogether. He stood up and walked the little way down to the landing, where La Belle Sauvage bobbed gently on the water.
He didn’t feel in the least bit sleepy, and his mind was still dwelling helplessly on the thought of Alice’s face, and what it might be like to stroke it or kiss it. He pushed that idea aside and tried to think of something else.
So he knelt down to look at the canoe, and there he had a shock because there was an inch of water in the bottom, and he knew he had bailed it out.
He untied the painter and hauled La Belle Sauvage up onto the grass and then tipped her over to let the water out. And just as he’d feared, there was a crack in the hull.
“When we came through that cataract,” said Asta.
“Must’ve hit a rock. Bugger.”
He knelt on the grass and looked at it closely. One of the cedar planks that formed the skin of the canoe had split, and the paint around it was scraped. The split didn’t look very serious, but Malcolm knew that the skin of the canoe flexed a little when it was moving, and no doubt it would go on letting in water till he mended it.
“What do we need?” said Asta, cat-shaped.
“Another plank, best of all. Or some canvas and glue. But we haven’t got any of them either.”
“The rucksack’s made of canvas.”
“Yeah. It is. I suppose I could cut a bit off the flap….”
“And look over there,” she said.
She was pointing to a great cedar, one of the few coniferous trees among the rest. Partway up the trunk, a branch had broken off, and the wound was leaking golden resin.
“That’ll do,” he said. “Let’s cut a bit of canvas.”
The flap of the rucksack was quite long and could easily spare a patch of the right size. Malcolm wondered whether the canvas was really necessary, because the actual waterproofing would be done by the resin, but then he thought of Alice and Lyra as the water slowly came in, and of himself trying more and more desperately to find somewhere to land….He should repair it as well as he could, as well as Mr. Taphouse would. He opened his knife and began to saw at the thick, stiff fabric, cutting out a piece a bit longer than the split in the hull. It was hard work.
“I never thought canvas was so tough,” he said. “I should have sharpened the knife.”
Asta, now bird-formed, had been sitting on a branch as high as she could get and keeping watch all around. She flew down to his shoulder.
“Let’s not be too long,” she said quietly.
“Is something wrong?”
“There’s something I can’t see. Not wrong, exactly, but…Just get the resin and we’ll go.”
&nbs
p; Malcolm cut through the last strands of the canvas and set off. Asta darted ahead a little way, becoming a hawk and getting to the tree just before he did. The resin was too high for him to reach without climbing, but he was happy to do that; the massive wide branches, sweeping low over the grass, made it feel totally secure.
He pressed the little piece of canvas into the resin and let it soak up as much as it could. Then he looked out of the tree and across the great lawns and flower beds as far as the terrace and the house beyond it: gracious and comfortable, splendid and generous. He thought that one day he’d come here by right, and be made welcome, and stroll among these gardens with happy companions and feel at ease with life and death.
Then he looked the other way, across the little river. And he was high enough in the tree to see over the top of the fog bank, which only extended upwards for a few feet, as he now discovered; and beyond it he saw a desolation, a wilderness of broken buildings, burned houses, heaps of rubble, crude shanties made of shattered plywood and tar paper, coils of rusty barbed wire, puddles of filthy water whose surfaces gleamed with the toxic shimmer of chemical waste, where children with sores on their arms and legs were throwing stones at a dog tied to a post.
He cried out before he could help it. But so did Asta, and she glided to his shoulder and said, “Bonneville! It’s him! On the terrace—”
He turned to look. It was too far to see distinctly, but there was a stir, and people were running towards someone in a chair—a carriage of some kind—a wheelchair—
“What are they doing?” he said.
He was aware of her attention, of the straightness and speed of it like a lance from her brilliant eyes. He tugged the canvas away from the resin with trembling fingers.
The Book of Dust, Volume 1 Page 36