“A child!”
“Don’t let her go—”
Lyra sank her teeth into his large freckled hand. He cried out, but didn’t let go, even when she drew blood. Pantalaimon was snarling and spitting, but it was no good, the man was much stronger than she was, and he pulled and pulled until her other hand, desperately clinging to the stanchion, had to loosen, and she half-fell through into the room.
Still she didn’t utter a sound. She hooked her legs over the sharp edge of the metal above, and struggled upside down, scratching, biting, punching, spitting in passionate fury. The men were gasping and grunting with pain or exertion, but they pulled and pulled.
And suddenly all the strength went out of her.
It was as if an alien hand had reached right inside where no hand had a right to be, and wrenched at something deep and precious.
She felt faint, dizzy, sick, disgusted, limp with shock.
One of the men was holding Pantalaimon.
He had seized Lyra’s dæmon in his human hands, and poor Pan was shaking, nearly out of his mind with horror and disgust. His wildcat shape, his fur now dull with weakness, now sparking glints of anbaric alarm … He curved toward his Lyra as she reached with both hands for him.…
They fell still. They were captured.
She felt those hands.… It wasn’t allowed.… Not supposed to touch …
Wrong.…
“Was she on her own?”
A man was peering into the ceiling space.
“Seems to be on her own.…”
“Who is she?”
“The new child.”
“The one the Samoyed hunters …”
“Yes.”
“You don’t suppose she … the dæmons …”
“Could well be. But not on her own, surely?”
“Should we tell—”
“I think that would put the seal on things, don’t you?”
“I agree. Better she doesn’t hear at all.”
“But what can we do about this?”
“She can’t go back with the other children.”
“Impossible!”
“There’s only one thing we can do, it seems to me.”
“Now?”
“Have to. Can’t leave it till the morning. She wants to watch.”
“We could do it ourselves. No need to involve anyone else.”
The man who seemed to be in charge, the man who wasn’t holding either Lyra or Pantalaimon, tapped his teeth with a thumbnail. His eyes were never still; they flicked and slid and darted this way and that. Finally he nodded.
“Now. Do it now,” he said. “Otherwise she’ll talk. The shock will prevent that, at least. She won’t remember who she is, what she saw, what she heard.… Come on.”
Lyra couldn’t speak. She could hardly breathe. She had to let herself be carried through the station, along white empty corridors, past rooms humming with anbaric power, past the dormitories where children slept with their dæmons on the pillow beside them, sharing their dreams; and every second of the way she watched Pantalaimon, and he reached for her, and their eyes never left each other.
Then a door which opened by means of a large wheel; a hiss of air; and a brilliantly lit chamber with dazzling white tiles and stainless steel. The fear she felt was almost a physical pain; it was a physical pain, as they pulled her and Pantalaimon over toward a large cage of pale silver mesh, above which a great pale silver blade hung poised to separate them forever and ever.
She found a voice at last, and screamed. The sound echoed loudly off the shiny surfaces, but the heavy door had hissed shut; she could scream and scream forever, and not a sound would escape.
But Pantalaimon, in answer, had twisted free of those hateful hands—he was a lion, an eagle; he tore at them with vicious talons, great wings beat wildly, and then he was a wolf, a bear, a polecat—darting, snarling, slashing, a succession of transformations too quick to register, and all the time leaping, flying, dodging from one spot to another as their clumsy hands flailed and snatched at the empty air.
But they had dæmons too, of course. It wasn’t two against three, it was two against six. A badger, an owl, and a baboon were all just as intent to pin Pantalaimon down, and Lyra was crying to them: “Why? Why are you doing this? Help us! You shouldn’t be helping them!”
And she kicked and bit more passionately than ever, until the man holding her gasped and let go for a moment—and she was free, and Pantalaimon sprang toward her like a spark of lightning, and she clutched him to her fierce breast, and he dug his wildcat claws into her flesh, and every stab of pain was dear to her.
“Never! Never! Never!” she cried, and backed against the wall to defend him to their death.
But they fell on her again, three big brutal men, and she was only a child, shocked and terrified; and they tore Pantalaimon away, and threw her into one side of the cage of mesh and carried him, struggling still, around to the other. There was a mesh barrier between them, but he was still part of her, they were still joined. For a second or so more, he was still her own dear soul.
Above the panting of the men, above her own sobs, above the high wild howl of her dæmon, Lyra heard a humming sound, and saw one man (bleeding from the nose) operate a bank of switches. The other two looked up, and her eyes followed theirs. The great pale silver blade was rising slowly, catching the brilliant light. The last moment in her complete life was going to be the worst by far.
“What is going on here?”
A light, musical voice: her voice. Everything stopped.
“What are you doing? And who is this child—”
She didn’t complete the word child, because in that instant she recognized Lyra. Through tear-blurred eyes Lyra saw her totter and clutch at a bench; her face, so beautiful and composed, grew in a moment haggard and horror-struck.
“Lyra—” she whispered.
The golden monkey darted from her side in a flash, and tugged Pantalaimon out from the mesh cage as Lyra fell out herself. Pantalaimon pulled free of the monkey’s solicitous paws and stumbled to Lyra’s arms.
“Never, never,” she breathed into his fur, and he pressed his beating heart to hers.
They clung together like survivors of a shipwreck, shivering on a desolate coast. Dimly she heard Mrs. Coulter speaking to the men, but she couldn’t even interpret her tone of voice. And then they were leaving that hateful room, and Mrs. Coulter was half-carrying, half-supporting her along a corridor, and then there was a door, a bedroom, scent in the air, soft light.
Mrs. Coulter laid her gently on the bed. Lyra’s arm was so tight around Pantalaimon that she was trembling with the force of it. A tender hand stroked her head.
“My dear, dear child,” said that sweet voice. “However did you come to be here?”
17
THE WITCHES
Lyra moaned and trembled uncontrollably, just as if she had been pulled out of water so cold that her heart had nearly frozen. Pantalaimon simply lay against her bare skin, inside her clothes, loving her back to herself, but aware all the time of Mrs. Coulter, busy preparing a drink of something, and most of all of the golden monkey, whose hard little fingers had run swiftly over Lyra’s body when only Pantalaimon could have noticed; and who had felt, around her waist, the oilskin pouch with its contents.
“Sit up, dear, and drink this,” said Mrs. Coulter, and her gentle arm slipped around Lyra’s back and lifted her.
Lyra clenched herself, but relaxed almost at once as Pantalaimon thought to her: We’re only safe as long as we pretend. She opened her eyes and found that they’d been containing tears, and to her surprise and shame she sobbed and sobbed.
Mrs. Coulter made sympathetic sounds and put the drink into the monkey’s hands while she mopped Lyra’s eyes with a scented handkerchief.
“Cry as much as you need to, darling,” said that soft voice, and Lyra determined to stop as soon as she possibly could. She struggled to hold back the tears, she pressed her lips together, she choke
d down the sobs that still shook her chest.
Pantalaimon played the same game: fool them, fool them. He became a mouse and crept away from Lyra’s hand to sniff timidly at the drink in the monkey’s clutch. It was innocuous: an infusion of chamomile, nothing more. He crept back to Lyra’s shoulder and whispered, “Drink it.”
She sat up and took the hot cup in both hands, alternately sipping and blowing to cool it. She kept her eyes down. She must pretend harder than she’d ever done in her life.
“Lyra, darling,” Mrs. Coulter murmured, stroking her hair. “I thought we’d lost you forever! What happened? Did you get lost? Did someone take you out of the flat?”
“Yeah,” Lyra whispered.
“Who was it, dear?”
“A man and a woman.”
“Guests at the party?”
“I think so. They said you needed something that was downstairs and I went to get it and they grabbed hold of me and took me in a car somewhere. But when they stopped, I ran out quick and dodged away and they never caught me. But I didn’t know where I was.…”
Another sob shook her briefly, but they were weaker now, and she could pretend this one was caused by her story.
“And I just wandered about trying to find my way back, only these Gobblers caught me.… And they put me in a van with some other kids and took me somewhere, a big building, I dunno where it was.”
With every second that went past, with every sentence she spoke, she felt a little strength flowing back. And now that she was doing something difficult and familiar and never quite predictable, namely lying, she felt a sort of mastery again, the same sense of complexity and control that the alethiometer gave her. She had to be careful not to say anything obviously impossible; she had to be vague in some places and invent plausible details in others; she had to be an artist, in short.
“How long did they keep you in this building?” said Mrs. Coulter.
Lyra’s journey along the canals and her time with the gyptians had taken weeks: she’d have to account for that time. She invented a voyage with the Gobblers to Trollesund, and then an escape, lavish with details from her observation of the town; and a time as maid-of-all-work at Einarsson’s Bar, and then a spell working for a family of farmers inland, and then being caught by the Samoyeds and brought to Bolvangar.
“And they were going to—going to cut—”
“Hush, dear, hush. I’m going to find out what’s been going on.”
“But why were they going to do that? I never done anything wrong! All the kids are afraid of what happens in there, and no one knows. But it’s horrible.
It’s worse than anything.… Why are they doing that, Mrs. Coulter? Why are they so cruel?”
“There, there … You’re safe, my dear. They won’t ever do it to you. Now I know you’re here, and you’re safe, you’ll never be in danger again. No one’s going to harm you, Lyra darling; no one’s ever going to hurt you.…”
“But they do it to other children! Why?”
“Ah, my love—”
“It’s Dust, isn’t it?”
“Did they tell you that? Did the doctors say that?”
“The kids know it. All the kids talk about it, but no one knows! And they nearly done it to me—you got to tell me! You got no right to keep it secret, not anymore!”
“Lyra … Lyra, Lyra. Darling, these are big difficult ideas, Dust and so on. It’s not something for children to worry about. But the doctors do it for the children’s own good, my love. Dust is something bad, something wrong, something evil and wicked. Grownups and their dæmons are infected with Dust so deeply that it’s too late for them. They can’t be helped.… But a quick operation on children means they’re safe from it. Dust just won’t stick to them ever again. They’re safe and happy and—”
Lyra thought of little Tony Makarios. She leaned forward suddenly and retched. Mrs. Coulter moved back and let go.
“Are you all right, dear? Go to the bathroom—”
Lyra swallowed hard and brushed her eyes.
“You don’t have to do that to us,” she said. “You could just leave us. I bet Lord Asriel wouldn’t let anyone do that if he knew what was going on. If he’s got Dust and you’ve got Dust, and the Master of Jordan and every other grownup’s got Dust, it must be all right. When I get out I’m going to tell all the kids in the world about this. Anyway, if it was so good, why’d you stop them doing it to me? If it was good, you should’ve let them do it. You should have been glad.”
Mrs. Coulter was shaking her head and smiling a sad wise smile.
“Darling,” she said, “some of what’s good has to hurt us a little, and naturally it’s upsetting for others if you’re upset.… But it doesn’t mean your dæmon is taken away from you. He’s still there! Goodness me, a lot of the grownups here have had the operation. The nurses seem happy enough, don’t they?”
Lyra blinked. Suddenly she understood their strange blank incuriosity, the way their little trotting dæmons seemed to be sleepwalking.
Say nothing, she thought, and shut her mouth hard.
“Darling, no one would ever dream of performing an operation on a child without testing it first. And no one in a thousand years would take a child’s dæmon away altogether! All that happens is a little cut, and then everything’s peaceful. Forever! You see, your dæmon’s a wonderful friend and companion when you’re young, but at the age we call puberty, the age you’re coming to very soon, darling, dæmons bring all sort of troublesome thoughts and feelings, and that’s what lets Dust in. A quick little operation before that, and you’re never troubled again. And your dæmon stays with you, only … just not connected. Like a … like a wonderful pet, if you like. The best pet in the world! Wouldn’t you like that?”
Oh, the wicked liar, oh, the shameless untruths she was telling! And even if Lyra hadn’t known them to be lies (Tony Makarios; those caged dæmons) she would have hated it with a furious passion. Her dear soul, the daring companion of her heart, to be cut away and reduced to a little trotting pet? Lyra nearly blazed with hatred, and Pantalaimon in her arms became a polecat, the most ugly and vicious of all his forms, and snarled.
But they said nothing. Lyra held Pantalaimon tight and let Mrs. Coulter stroke her hair.
“Drink up your chamomile,” said Mrs. Coulter softly. “We’ll have them make up a bed for you in here. There’s no need to go back and share a dormitory with other girls, not now I’ve got my little assistant back. My favorite! The best assistant in the world. D’you know, we searched all over London for you, darling? We had the police searching every town in the land. Oh, I missed you so much! I can’t tell you how happy I am to find you again.…”
All the time, the golden monkey was prowling about restlessly, one minute perching on the table swinging his tail, the next clinging to Mrs. Coulter and chittering softly in her ear, the next pacing the floor with tail erect. He was betraying Mrs. Coulter’s impatience, of course, and finally she couldn’t hold it in.
“Lyra, dear,” she said, “I think that the Master of Jordan gave you something before you left. Isn’t that right? He gave you an alethiometer. The trouble is, it wasn’t his to give. It was left in his care. It’s really too valuable to be carried about—d’you know, it’s one of only two or three in the world! I think the Master gave it to you in the hope that it would fall into Lord Asriel’s hands. He told you not to tell me about it, didn’t he?”
Lyra twisted her mouth.
“Yes, I can see. Well, never mind, darling, because you didn’t tell me, did you? So you haven’t broken any promises. But listen, dear, it really ought to be properly looked after. I’m afraid it’s so rare and delicate that we can’t let it be at risk any longer.”
“Why shouldn’t Lord Asriel have it?” Lyra said, not moving.
“Because of what he’s doing. You know he’s been sent away to exile, because he’s got something dangerous and wicked in mind. He needs the alethiometer to finish his plan, but believe me, dear, the last thi
ng anyone should do is let him have it. The Master of Jordan was sadly mistaken. But now that you know, it really would be better to let me have it, wouldn’t it? It would save you the trouble of carrying it around, and all the worry of looking after it—and really it must have been such a puzzle, wondering what a silly old thing like that was any good for.…”
Lyra wondered how she had ever, ever, ever found this woman to be so fascinating and clever.
“So if you’ve got it now, dear, you’d really better let me have it to look after. It’s in that belt around your waist, isn’t it? Yes, that was a clever thing to do, putting it away like this.…”
Her hands were at Lyra’s skirt, and then she was unfastening the stiff oilcloth. Lyra tensed herself. The golden monkey was crouching at the end of the bed, trembling with anticipation, little black hands to his mouth. Mrs. Coulter pulled the belt away from Lyra’s waist and unbuttoned the pouch. She was breathing fast. She took out the black velvet cloth and unfolded it, finding the tin box Iorek Byrnison had made.
Pantalaimon was a cat again, tensed to spring. Lyra drew her legs up away from Mrs. Coulter, and swung them down to the floor so that she too could run when the time came.
“What’s this?” said Mrs. Coulter, as if amused. “What a funny old tin! Did you put it in here to keep it safe, dear? All this moss … You have been careful, haven’t you? Another tin, inside the first one! And soldered! Who did this, dear?”
She was too intent on opening it to wait for an answer. She had a knife in her handbag with a lot of different attachments, and she pulled out a blade and dug it under the lid.
At once a furious buzzing filled the room.
Lyra and Pantalaimon held themselves still. Mrs. Coulter, puzzled, curious, pulled at the lid, and the golden monkey bent close to look.
Then in a dazzling moment the black form of the spy-fly hurtled out of the tin and crashed hard into the monkey’s face.
He screamed and flung himself backward; and of course it was hurting Mrs. Coulter too, and she cried out in pain and fright with the monkey, and then the little clockwork devil swarmed upward at her, up her breast and throat toward her face.
His Dark Materials Omnibus Page 26