The Book of Dust, Volume 1

by Philip Pullman

  “Take Lyra!” Malcolm shouted to Alice, and scrambled over to seize the painter of the canoe and drag it down over the grass to the water’s edge.

  Behind him Bonneville was shouting incoherently and trying to haul himself over the ground towards the child. Alice threw the gun into the darkness of the trees and snatched Lyra up. Bonneville tried to grab her as she came near, but she easily evaded him and leapt over the howling dæmon, who twisted and squirmed and fell again, trying to stand up on a leg that was hardly there.

  It was horrible to watch: Malcolm had to close his eyes. Then Alice was climbing into the canoe with Lyra secure in her arms, and he pushed off from the grass, and the sweet-natured canoe did his bidding at once and carried them away and onto the breast of the flood.

  Heavy clouds loomed above, but behind the clouds the moon was nearly full and lent a faint radiance to the whole sky.

  Lyra lay awake, happy enough to gurgle with the swaying of the boat. Malcolm’s stiff arms and shoulders began to loosen, and the canoe made good speed on the dark water. Alice was looking intently past Malcolm’s head towards the house as it vanished behind them. Even in the dimness, Malcolm could see her face, sharp and anxious and angry, and he saw her bend forward to adjust Lyra’s blankets and stroke her face.

  “D’you wanna biscuit?” she said softly.

  He thought she was speaking to Lyra. Then she looked up at him.

  “What’s the matter? Wake up,” she said.

  “Oh. Me. Yes, please, I’d like a biscuit. Actually, I’d like a whole plate of steak and kidney pudding. And some lemonade. And—”

  “Shut up,” she said. “Stupid, talking like that. All we got’s biscuits. D’you want one or not?”

  “Yes.”

  She leaned forward and gave him a handful of fig rolls. He ate them in small mouthfuls, taking as long as he could to chew each bite.

  “Can you see him?” Malcolm said after five minutes.

  “Can’t even see the house. I reckon we lost him now.”

  “But he’s mad. Mad people, they don’t know when to give up.”

  “You must be mad, then.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. He paddled on, though the force of the flood was such that all he had to do was steer and keep the boat’s head forward.

  “He’s prob’ly dead by now,” Alice said.

  “I was thinking that. He was bleeding a lot.”

  “I think there’s an artery there, in his leg. And that dæmon…”

  “She can’t live, surely. Won’t be able to move, neither of ’em.”

  “We better hope they are dead.”

  The clouds overhead parted from time to time and let the brilliant moonlight through—so bright that Malcolm almost had to shade his eyes. Alice sat up and peered even more fiercely at the water behind them, and Malcolm scanned ahead left and right, looking for somewhere to land and rest; but only isolated clumps of bare trees rose above the racing water. He felt as if he had passed beyond exhaustion into a state of trance, and that minutes went by in which his sleeping body paddled and watched and steered without any influence from his dreaming mind.

  The only sound was the wind over the flood, except for a tiny insect buzz that came and went. The floodwater must be breeding pestilence, Malcolm thought. “Better be careful to keep mosquitoes and that away from Lyra,” he said.

  “What mosquitoes? It’s far too cold.”

  “I can hear one.”

  “That en’t a mosquito,” she said, sounding scornful, and she nodded at something behind him.

  He turned. The bulky clouds had shouldered one another aside, and the moon shone down over the whole waste of water; and in all that wide emptiness there was only one thing that moved with purpose, and that was an engine-boat a long way behind them. He could only see it because it had a searchlight on the bow, and it was getting very slightly closer every minute.

  “Is that him?” Malcolm said.

  “Can’t be. It’s too big. He never had a boat with an engine.”

  “They haven’t seen us yet.”

  “How d’you know that?”

  “ ’Cause they’re moving the searchlight all over the place. And they’d be going a lot faster if they wanted to catch us. We’ll have to hide, though, ’cause they’ll see us if they get any closer.”

  He bent his back to paddling harder, even though every bone and muscle in his body ached and he longed to cry with fatigue. He would hate to cry in front of Lyra, because to her he was big and strong, and she would have been frightened to see him frightened, or at least he thought so.

  So he gritted his teeth and plunged the paddle into the water with his trembling muscles and tried to ignore the whine of the motor, which was not intermittent anymore, but constant and getting louder.

  The flood was taking them into an area of hills and woodlands, hills that crowded closer than before and woodlands that were partly bare and partly evergreen. The clouds drifted over the moon again and darkened everything.

  “I can’t see ’em,” said Alice. “They’ve gone behind that wood….No, there they are.”

  “How far back are they, d’you think?”

  “They’ll catch us in about five minutes.”

  “I’ll pull in, then.”

  “Why?”

  “On the water they could just tip us over. On land we got a chance.”

  “Chance to what?”

  “Chance to not die, maybe.”

  In fact, he was terrified, so much so that he could barely move the canoe forward anymore in case he dropped the paddle. There was a wooded slope to their left—dark trees—and what looked in the gloom like a stone embankment, though it was probably the roof of a big house—anyway, he made for that, and then the moon came out again.

  It was no rooftop, simply a flat piece of land in front of the wood. Malcolm drove La Belle Sauvage up onto the soft soil, and Alice seized Lyra and stepped out almost in one movement. Malcolm leapt out and turned to look for the launch.

  Alice, holding Lyra, had retreated further up the slope, but the open space was not very large: close-branched holm oaks with spiked leaves crowded in on all sides. She clung to the baby and watched fearfully for the launch, moving her weight unconsciously from one foot to the other, shivering, breathing quickly, making a little moaning noise in her throat.

  Malcolm had never found it so difficult to move; every muscle quivered. He looked up at the close-leafed trees, dark evergreens that were darker than the sky. The moon shone down with what felt like merciless force, but it was unable to penetrate the canopy of the leaves. He hauled and hauled La Belle Sauvage up over the stony ground and into the shadow of the trees just as the searchlight appeared from behind a thick wood a couple of hundred yards away and swung towards them.

  “Don’t move,” said Malcolm. “Just keep absolutely still.”

  “Think I’m stupid?” said Alice, but sotto voce.

  Then the light was directly shining at them, dazzling, blinding. Malcolm shut his eyes and stood like a statue. He could hear Alice whispering, desperate for Lyra to stay quiet. Then the light moved away, and the launch moved past.

  When it had gone, the fear Malcolm had been holding down since he stabbed Bonneville came back, and he had to lean forward and be sick.

  “Don’t worry,” said Alice. “You’ll feel better in a minute.”

  “Will I?”

  “Yeah. You’ll see.”

  He had never heard that tone in her voice before, or ever expected it. Lyra was grizzling. He wiped his mouth and felt in the canoe for the torch. He switched it on and waved it about to distract Lyra. She stopped crying and held out her hands for it.

  “No, you can’t have it,” he said. “I’m going to find some wood and make a fire. You’ll like that. When we’re warm, we can…”

  He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. He had never felt so frightened. But why? The danger was gone.

  “Alice,” he said, “are you scared
?”

  “Yeah. But not much. If it was just me, I would be. But not so much with us both….”

  He set off up the little slope towards the wood. The trees clustered so close and thick that he could hardly force his way between them, and when he did, the leaves scratched his hands and his head; but this was a relief. Any activity was a relief. And there were dry branches enough on the ground, and dry sticks, and soon he’d gathered an armful.

  But when he came out of the trees, he found Alice on her feet, desperate.

  “What is it?”

  “They’re coming back—”

  She pointed. In the direction they’d come from, there was a light on the water—the searchlight—and although it was still some way off, the boat had the air of something official, the police, the CCD; it was searching for something or someone. It was coming, not fast but inexorably, and it would see them very soon.

  And at that there was a rustling among the leaves, and the branches parted, and a man stepped out.

  “Malcolm,” said the man, “get your boat further in the trees, quick. Bring the baby in here out the way. That’s the CCD down there. Come on!”

  “Mr. Boatwright?” said Malcolm, utterly astonished.

  “Yes, that’s me. Now hurry up.”

  While Alice ran with Lyra up to the shelter of the trees, Malcolm untied La Belle Sauvage and, with George Boatwright’s help, pulled it up the slope and under the low branches before taking Bonneville’s rucksack and turning the canoe upside down in case it rained again.

  Meanwhile, the boat with the searchlight was getting closer.

  “How d’you know it’s the CCD?” he whispered.

  “They been patrolling. Don’t worry. If we keep still and quiet, they won’t stop.”

  “The baby—”

  “Drop o’ wine’ll keep her quiet,” said Boatwright, handing something to Alice.

  Malcolm looked around. There was no one to see but Boatwright and a score of shadows, but then the moon went in again and the shadows dissolved in a deeper darkness. The boat with its searchlight moved closer.

  “Where’s Alice?” Malcolm whispered to Asta.

  Almost inaudibly his dæmon murmured, “Further in. Giving Lyra a drink.”

  The men in the boat had seen something that interested them. The searchlight was turning towards the shore, and then shining straight up into the trees. Malcolm felt as if every inch of him was visible.

  “Keep still and they won’t see a thing,” muttered George Boatwright from the darkness.

  A voice from the boat said, “Is that footprints?”

  “Where?” said another.

  “On the grass. Down there—look.”

  The searchlight swung down. The voices spoke again more quietly.

  “Will they—” Malcolm began to whisper, but Boatwright’s hard smoky-smelling hand shut his mouth.

  “Don’t bother with it,” one of the voices said. “Come on.”

  Then the light swung away and the engine noise rose, and the boat steadily moved away. A minute later it had vanished on the flood.

  Boatwright took his hand away. Malcolm could hardly speak. He was shaking in every limb. He stumbled, and Boatwright caught him.

  “When’d you last eat or sleep, eh?” he said.

  “Can’t remember.”

  “Well, thassit, then. Come along here and have a bit of stew. Eh, your mum’d be proud of a stew like we got in the cave. Want me to carry that?”

  The rucksack was heavy, but Malcolm shook his head, and then said, “No,” realizing that subtle gestures were lost in the dark. He struggled to put his arms through the straps, and Boatwright helped him. A few paces further on there was a little clearing, where Alice was sitting on a fallen tree trunk with Lyra, who was fast asleep on her lap. She’d been feeding her with a teaspoon from a bottle of wine.

  When Alice saw Malcolm, she got to her feet at once and came to his side, Lyra tight in her arms.

  “Here, take Lyra. I got to pee….”

  She thrust the child at him and darted into the undergrowth. Trembling or not, Malcolm held on to the child as firmly as he could and listened to her contented breathing. “We ought to’ve given you wine before,” he said to her. “You’re sleeping like a baby.”

  Boatwright said, “Five minutes’ walk, lad. You want to bring anything else from the canoe?”

  “Will it be safe?”

  “It’s invisible, son. Can’t get safer’n that.”

  “Good. Well…there’s things for the baby. Alice knows what they are.”

  She came back at that moment, brushing her skirt down, and having heard what they said, she gathered an armful of things: a pillow, blankets, the saucepan, a packet of nappies, a box of milk powder….But she was trembling as much as Malcolm.

  “Spread that blanket out on the ground,” said Boatwright, and when she did, he packed everything in the center, gathered in the four corners, and swung the bundle over his shoulder. “Now follow me.”

  “You all right carrying her?” Alice whispered.

  “For a bit, yeah. She’s fast asleep.”

  “We oughter tried wine before….”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I dunno what effect it’ll have on her insides. Here, let me take her. You got that rucksack. Where’d you get it anyway? Is it his?”

  “Yeah,” said Malcolm. “From his boat.”

  He was glad to hand the child over, because the rucksack was heavy. He had no idea why he’d taken it, except as something to bargain with. Perhaps they wouldn’t need it now. Maybe Bonneville was a spy, in which case Dr. Relf would be interested in it.

  But that made his throat catch. Just the thought of those cozy afternoons in that warm house, talking about books, hearing about the history of ideas! And he might have to be a fugitive for the rest of his life, an outlaw, like Mr. Boatwright. It was all very well in the flood, when everything was upside down, but when the water retreated and normal life emerged…Well, actually, nothing would be normal and safe ever again.

  After some minutes’ walking, they came to a larger clearing in front of a rock that rose sheer from the ground. The moon had come out again, and in its silver light they saw the entrance to a cave half hidden behind the undergrowth. The smoke of a fire was drifting through the air, with various good smells of meat and gravy, and the sound of quiet voices.

  Mr. Boatwright lifted a heavy sheet of canvas and held it open for Malcolm and Alice. They went in, and all conversation stopped. In the light of a lantern, they saw half a dozen people, men and women and two children, sitting on the floor or on wooden boxes, eating from tin plates. Beside the fire was a large woman whom Malcolm recognized: Mrs. Boatwright.

  She saw Alice first and said, “Alice Parslow? That en’t you, is it? I know your mam. And you’re Malcolm Polstead from the Trout—well, God bless me. What’s going on, George?”

  George Boatwright said, “Survivors on the flood, they are.”

  “You can call me Audrey,” said the woman, getting to her feet. “And who’s this? He? She?”

  “She,” said Malcolm. “Lyra.”

  “Well, she needs a clean nappy. We got warm water over here. You got food for her? It’ll have to be milk powder—oh, you got some. That’ll do. I’ll put a saucepan on to boil while you change her and clean her. Then you can both have a bite to eat yourselves. You floated all the way from Oxford? You must be worn out. Eat, then sleep.”

  “Where are we?” said Malcolm.

  “Somewhere in the Chilterns. That’s all I know. Safe for the time being. These other folk, they’re all like us, in the same position kind of thing, but you don’t inquire too close—it en’t polite.”

  “All right,” said Alice.

  “Thank you,” said Malcolm, and went with Alice to a corner of the cave away from the people who were eating.

  Audrey Boatwright brought a lantern and hung it up. In its warm light, Alice set about undoing Lyra’s sopping clothes
and handing the stinking bundle to Malcolm.

  “Her dress and everything’s all…,” he said.

  “I’ll wrap her in the blanket for now and dress her properly when it’s aired out a bit or washed if we can.”

  Malcolm took the soggy bundle and carefully separated what was to be thrown away and what was to be washed. He looked around, wondering what they did with rubbish, and found a boy of about his own age looking at him.

  “You want to know where to throw it?” the boy said. “Come with me. I’ll show you. What’s your name?”

  “Malcolm. What’s yours?”

  “Andrew. That your sister?”

  “What, Alice? No…”

  “I mean the baby.”

  “Oh. We’re just looking after her in the flood.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Oxford. You?”

  “Wallingford. Look, you can throw that in the pit there.”

  The boy seemed to want to be helpful, but Malcolm wasn’t inclined to talk. All he wanted to do was sleep. Still, on the principle of not making enemies, he let the boy guide him back to the cave and exchanged a question or two.

  “Are you here with your parents?” Malcolm asked.

  “No. Just my auntie.”

  “Did you get flooded out?”

  “Yeah. Lots of people in our street got drowned. There’s never been such a flood since Noah’s time, prob’ly.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised. It won’t last long, though, I don’t suppose.”

  “Forty days and forty nights.”

  “You reckon? Oh—yeah,” said Malcolm, remembering his Bible lessons.

  “What’s the baby’s name?”

  “Lyra.”

  “Lyra…And who’s the big girl? Did you say her name was Alice?”

  “She’s just a friend. Thanks for showing me the pit. G’night.”

  “Oh, g’night,” said Andrew, sounding a little put out.

  Alice was feeding Lyra, sitting under the lantern light, looking exhausted. Audrey Boatwright came over with two tin plates heaped with stew and potatoes, steaming hot.

  “Give her to me,” she said. “I’ll finish her off. You need to eat.”

  Alice handed the child over without a word, and started to eat, as Malcolm had already done. He had never felt so hungry, never felt his hunger so gratified, not even in his mother’s kitchen.