The Book of Dust, Volume 1

by Philip Pullman

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” he whispered to Asta.

  “I was asleep too.”

  He struggled up, blinking and yawning and rubbing his left eye, where the skin wasn’t as scratched as the other side was.

  “You all right?” came in a quiet voice from Alice.

  “Yeah. I just slipped over sideways.”

  “I thought you was going to stay awake.”

  “I was awake. I just slipped.”

  “Yeah.”

  He settled himself upright again and checked the branch. The boat didn’t seem to have gone up or down, but the rain was still hammering on the tarpaulin.

  “You cold?” he said.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “A bit. We need more blankets.”

  “Dry ones. And cushions or something. It’s bloody uncomfortable.”

  “We’ll get ’em in the morning. I’m going to try and paddle back home when I can see where we are,” he said. “But we’ll get stuff for Lyra first.”

  They were quiet for a minute. Then she said, “What if we can’t get back?”

  “We will.”

  “You hope.”

  “Well, it’s not far….”

  “This water’s racing along. You can’t paddle against that.”

  “Then we’ll hold tight here till it stops.”

  “But she needs…”

  “We’re not in the middle of nowhere. There’s shops and stuff just across Port Meadow. We’ll go there as soon as we can see, in the morning.”

  “Your mum and dad’ll worry.”

  “Nothing we can do about it now. What about yours?”

  “Got no dad. Just Mum and my sisters.”

  “I don’t even know where you live.”

  “Wolvercote. She’ll think I’ve drowned.”

  “So will the nuns. They’ll think Lyra’s been carried away….”

  “Well, she has been.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “If there’s any of ’em survived.”

  Another minute or two went by. Malcolm heard her dæmon whispering something to her, and heard her whispering back.

  Then she said, “Did you go to the potting shed, like I told you?”

  Malcolm felt himself blush and was glad of the dark. He said, “Yeah. He was there with Sister Katarina.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “I…I couldn’t really see.”

  “I know what they were doing. Bastard. I wanted to kill him, you know, Bonneville, when I hit him.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause he’d been nice to me. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t. But if you did kill him, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “You think he’s really after Lyra?”

  “Well, you told me that.”

  “D’you think he could be Lyra’s father?”

  “No, I’ve spoken to Lyra’s father. The real one.”

  “When?”

  He told her about the strange nighttime episode in the priory garden, and about lending Lord Asriel the canoe. She didn’t scoff in disbelief, as he’d thought she would.

  “What did he do with her?”

  “I told you. He walked up and down, holding her and whispering to her.”

  They were practically whispering themselves, speaking as quietly as they could under the rain. Alice said nothing for a minute or so.

  Then she said, “Did you hear what he was saying?”

  “No. I was keeping watch by the priory wall.”

  “But he looked as if he loved her?”

  “Yeah. Certainly.”

  Another minute went by.

  “If we can’t get back,” she said, “if we just get swept away, right…”

  “Yeah?”

  “What we going to do with her?”

  “Prob’ly…prob’ly see if we can get to Jordan College.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of scholastic sanctuary.”

  “What’s that?”

  He explained as well as he could.

  “You reckon they’d take her in? She en’t a scholar, or anything like.”

  “I think if someone asks for sanctuary, they have to take ’em in.”

  “And how could they look after a baby, anyway? All those colleges are full of old men. They wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “They’d pay someone to do that, prob’ly. They could prob’ly write to Lord Asriel and he’d pay, or else maybe come and get her himself.”

  “Where is that college, then?” Alice said.

  “On Turl Street. Right in the middle of town.”

  “How’d you know about that sanctuary thing?”

  “Dr. Relf told me,” he said, and explained how she’d left a book at the Trout with her address in it, and he’d taken it back to her. He said not a word about the acorn or the spying. Talking to Alice was a lot easier in the dark. He spun the story out, even though he’d told it before, thinking it would help to keep her awake, not realizing for a moment that that was her purpose with regard to him.

  “Where did you say she lived?”

  “In Jericho. Cranham Street. It’ll be underwater now—downstairs, anyway. I hope she did what I told her to and moved all her books upstairs.”

  If in the morning the water on Port Meadow lay calm and still like a great lagoon, and the sun came out and glittered and sparkled on the water, and all the buildings of Oxford shone against the blue sky, as if they’d been freshly painted, it would be easy to get across to the city center and find Jordan College, he thought. And what a delight it would be to paddle towards them, and slip along canal-like streets and tie up by second-floor windows and look at all the odd views and strange reflections. And on the way they’d find somewhere that had the supplies Lyra needed, which would include milk now, because she’d had nothing but a biscuit. And she had to have something clean to drink, because the water they floated on would be full of stirred-up dirt and dead animals. The ghosts of all the animals would be crying under the water. He could hear them now—“Ha! Haa! Haaa!”

  Alice was kicking his ankle.

  “Malcolm!” she whispered savagely. “Malcolm!”

  “Yeah, I’m awake— What’s that? Is that him?”

  “Shut up!”

  He strained to hear. That ghastly laugh was unmistakable, but where was it? The rain had not ceased, the wind was still moaning and whistling in the bare boughs all around, but through the chaos of natural sounds Malcolm could make out something different and regular: the splash of oars, the creak of ungreased oarlocks, and that hyena laugh over it all, as if it was mocking Bonneville himself, mocking the flood, mocking Malcolm and his efforts to make the little canoe safe.

  Then they heard Bonneville’s voice.

  “Shut up, you bitch—shut your crazy mouth—filthy noise—bite your other bloody leg off, go on—chew on that—shut up! Stop that goddamn noise!”

  It got closer and closer. Malcolm’s hand found the Swiss Army knife and opened it silently. He would stab the dæmon first, and then the man. The paddle was at his feet—if he swung it hard, he might knock the dæmon into the water and then the man would be helpless—but he might grab the paddle before Malcolm could do that….

  The sounds diminished.

  Malcolm heard Alice blow out her breath, as if she’d been holding it in. And Lyra stirred and in her sleep uttered a little whimpering mew, which Alice quickly muffled. Malcolm could see nothing, of course, but it sounded as if Alice had her hand over Lyra’s mouth, and then came a sound of contentment from the child. But it was such a quiet sound that only someone actually in the canoe could have heard it, Malcolm thought.

  “Has he gone?” Alice whispered.

  “I think so,” he whispered back.

  “Did he have a light?”

  “I didn’t see one.”

  “He’s just rowing along in the dark?”

  “Well, he’s mad.”

  “Didn’t see us, th
ough.”

  “He’s not going to leave us alone,” said Malcolm after a minute.

  “He’s not having her either,” Alice said at once.

  “No.”

  He listened hard. No oars, no voice, no dæmonic laughter. Bonneville’s boat had been going in the same direction as theirs, which was the same direction as the flood: downriver. But with everything underwater, and all kinds of unpredictable swirls and currents likely to have been born in the darkness, who knew where he might end up? Malcolm longed for the morning with every particle of his body.

  “Here,” whispered Alice, and he leaned forward to find her hand and took the biscuit she was holding.

  He nibbled it slowly, only taking another bite when every crumb of the last one was gone. The sugar slowly worked its way into his system and made him feel a little stronger. There was a whole packet there, enough to last them some time yet.

  But his exhaustion was more than a match for the sugar. Little by little his head slipped lower, and Alice said nothing, and Lyra slept on; and soon all three of them were fast asleep.

  —

  Malcolm woke when a faint gray light penetrated the tarpaulin. He was bitterly cold, and shivering so hard he was shaking the canoe. At least the drumming of the rain had stopped, and at least the canoe was still lying level on the water.

  He carefully unfastened the nearest part of the tarpaulin and lifted it enough to peer out. Through the bare branches he saw a wild waste of gray water, surging from left to right across the wide open space that had been Port Meadow: he could see the city’s spires beyond it. Nothing but water: no ground, no riverbank, no bridge. And all speeding with a mighty force, almost silent, certainly irresistible. There was no possibility of paddling against it and making their way back home.

  He checked the branch, the knot in the painter, the tree. The canoe was quite handily placed, in fact; luck had been on their side, or a little luck anyway. They were among the crowns of a group of trees surrounding the tower of an old oratory: exactly where he’d thought they were, though it all looked different from high up in a tree. He couldn’t remember the name of the place, but it was halfway down Port Meadow towards the south. The main force of the flood was broken up here and baffled by the trees, which was why the canoe hadn’t been torn loose and swept away.

  They’d have to move soon, though. Malcolm looked at that wild waste, and his heart quailed. His little boat, and all that force of water…Calm rivers and still backwaters and shallow canals were one thing. This was another thing entirely.

  But it had to be done. By eye he measured the distance between them and the roofs of Oxford, and estimated how far he could steer the canoe across that surging flood….The city was a long way off, with all that water between them.

  He pulled himself up, rolled back the tarpaulin, found the paddle. His moving made the boat sway and woke Alice, who was lying with Lyra on her chest. The child was still asleep.

  “What you doing?” Alice whispered.

  “The sooner we move, the sooner we can sort her out. It’s stopped raining, at least.”

  She lifted the tarpaulin and peered out.

  “That’s horrible,” she said. “You can’t paddle across that. Where are we?”

  “Sort of near Binsey.”

  “That’s like the bloody German Ocean out there.”

  “It’s not that big. And it’ll be a lot easier once we get among the buildings.”

  “If you say so,” she said, closing the tarpaulin again.

  “How’s Lyra?”

  “Soaking wet and stinking.”

  “Well, we’d better start, then. No point in waiting till the sun comes out.”

  He reached up to undo the knot. It was closer than it had been when he tied it, so the water was higher.

  “What should I do?” said Alice.

  “Sit as still as you can. It’ll rock a bit, but if you get frightened and panic, it’ll be ten times worse. Just sit still.”

  He could feel the contempt in her eyes, but she said nothing and settled herself more comfortably. The bowline had been pulled tight by the strain on it during the night, but by working it back and forth, Malcolm was able to undo it. That was the thing with a bowline: you could always undo it. Though a slipped reef knot would be quicker, he thought again. Well, next time.

  As soon as the painter was free, the canoe began to swing away from the trees. And at once Malcolm began to regret not having rolled back more of the tarpaulin: he could see hardly anything ahead.

  “I’m going to undo the tarpaulin,” he said. “Not all of it. Just enough so’s I can see ahead.”

  “You should’ve—”

  “I know.”

  She held her tongue. Malcolm thanked those gyptian craftsmen who’d made the fastenings, because they all came free with great ease. Alice reached up to pull the coal silk back towards herself, and then he could see a lot better.

  He took the paddle and tentatively moved the canoe out into the open. Immediately the current seized it and spun it round so the stern was leading, and Malcolm knew his mistake: nothing should be tentative. He dug the paddle in the water till the boat was the proper way round, and to her credit Alice did as he’d told her and said not a word. Then Malcolm tried to strike a course across the open waste of sweeping water and made hardly any progress. He could see the roofs of Jericho, the campanile of St. Barnabas, the great classical building of the Fell Press, the spires and towers of central Oxford itself, but they were far off and unreachable; the flood had its own idea about where the canoe should go.

  All right: concentrate on keeping steady, and hope to avoid any underwater snags.

  Actually, the thought of striking anything below the surface was so abominable that Malcolm put it out of his head at once. The canoe was whirled forward, with as little purchase on the water as a twig. The flood was carrying them inexorably into the city, but not smoothly or easily, because the buildings broke up the flow and made the water seethe and surge with turbulence. Malcolm couldn’t keep the canoe steady: all he could do was stop it from tipping over and hope that they’d find a calmer patch of water near Broad Street and Jordan College. The idea of going all the way to London seemed like a fantasy of the night: Jordan College—sanctuary—safety—that was the priority now.

  The great mass of water coming off Port Meadow had forced its way through the grid of narrow streets in Jericho and was racing down the wide boulevard of St. Giles, having been joined by even more powerful streams coming down the Banbury and Woodstock roads. And now Malcolm and Alice could see other people struggling with the flood, some desperately trying to keep their heads above water as they were carried along, some in little boats—punts or dinghies—trying to rescue those in danger of drowning, some clinging to the trees in St. Mary Magdalen’s graveyard, some being helped through open windows into Balliol or St. John’s colleges. Cries of despair, shouts of encouragement, and the sound of an engine-boat roaring along a side street all mingled with the crash of the water against the ancient stone buildings, and before Malcolm had the canoe ready to turn into Broad Street, La Belle Sauvage was nearly capsized by the turbulence.

  Alice cried out in alarm. Malcolm dug the paddle into the water with all his strength and kept the little craft upright, but at the cost of missing the turn into Broad Street. Before he could do anything about it, they were already in the Cornmarket.

  “Ship Street!” cried hawk Asta, and Malcolm shouted back, “I know—I’m trying—” as he forced the canoe towards the tower of St. Michael Northgate, at the corner of the little street that led directly to Jordan.

  But the way was blocked. Part of the tower had fallen, and the flood surged and foamed against the great heap of stones at the entrance to the street. The only way was to go forward again and hope he could turn onto Market Street, but that was foiled too: a large wagon carrying vegetables to the Covered Market had smashed against the shop on the corner. Boxes of cabbages and onions bobbed on the water, and
the horse pulling the wagon lay drowned between the shafts. There was no passage through here either.

  And the flood bore them on relentlessly, towards the crossroads at Carfax, where again Malcolm tried to force the canoe left and onto the High Street, in the hope of turning onto Turl Street and reaching Jordan that way. But the little vessel had no more headway than a cork. The flood hurled them across the junction and into St. Aldate’s, where the downward slope of the street let the water rush on with even greater speed.

  “It en’t gonna work!” Alice shouted.

  Malcolm could hear Lyra crying, not with shrill fear but with a steady note of complaint at the cold and the wet and the incessant lurching of the canoe.

  “We’ll find somewhere to stop soon, Lyra!” he shouted back.

  All around them, buildings lay with smashed windows or fallen walls, and broken doors and uprooted trees raced along on the water. Someone in an engine-boat was trying to maneuver it towards an upstairs window, where a gray-haired woman in a nightdress was calling for help, her terrier dæmon barking madly. Folly Bridge had been swept away altogether, and the Thames was no longer a river but a swollen sea of gray turbulence sweeping from right to left and threatening to overwhelm La Belle Sauvage entirely. But Malcolm had time to prepare, and dug the paddle in harder than ever before, and just managed to keep her on a course for the level land further down.

  This was a district of suburban streets and small shops, and before long, hawk-eyed Asta, with Ben flying close to her, cried out, “Left! Left!”

  There was nothing to impede them this time, and Malcolm brought the canoe into a side street away from the main flood, where it was a little quieter.

  “I’m going to bring us in by that green cross!” he shouted. “It’s a pharmacy. See if you can grab hold—it’s on a bracket—”

  Alice sat up, looked around, shifted Lyra to her other side, and reached out to do as he said. They weren’t moving very quickly here, and it wasn’t hard for her to seize the bracket and hold the boat still against the building. Malcolm leaned out and looked closely down, sideways, down again.

  “Does it feel firm?”

  “It en’t loose, if that’s what you mean.”