The Book of Dust: La Belle Sauvage

Twelve Alice Talks

Just as Malcolm finished his supper and took his pudding bowl to the sink, there was a knock on the kitchen door — the door to the garden. No one came to that door as a rule. Malcolm looked at his mother, but she was busy at the stove and he was close to the door, so he opened it a little way.

There stood a man he didn’t know, wearing a leather jacket and a wide-brimmed hat, with a blue-and-white-spotted handkerchief around his neck. Something about his clothes, or the way he stood, made Malcolm think: gyptian.

“Are you Malcolm?” the man asked.

“Yes,” said Malcolm, and at the same moment his mother said, “Who is it?”

The man stepped forward into the light and took off his hat. He was in late middle age, lean and brown-skinned. His expression was calm and courteous, and his dæmon was a very large and beautiful cat.

“Coram van Texel, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve got something for Malcolm, if you’ll just excuse him for a few minutes.”

“Got something? Got what? Come inside and give it to him here,” she said.

“It’s a bit big for that,” said the gyptian. “It won’t take more’n a short while. I need to explain a couple of things.”

His mother’s badger dæmon had left his corner and come to the door, and he and the cat dæmon touched noses and exchanged a whisper. Then Mrs. Polstead nodded.

“Go on, then,” she said.

Malcolm finished drying his hands and went outside with the stranger. It had stopped raining, but the air was saturated with moisture, and the lights through the windows shone on the terrace and the grass with a misty radiance that made everything look as if it was underwater.

The stranger stepped off the terrace and headed towards the river. Malcolm could see the line of the footprints in the wet grass he’d just made coming up.

“You remember Lord Asriel,” the stranger said.

“Yes. Is it—”

“He charged me with bringing back your boat, and he said to give you great thanks, and he hopes you’ll be pleased with her condition.”

As they went beyond the reach of the lights from the windows, the man struck a match and lit a lantern. He adjusted the wick and closed the lens, and a clear beam fell out on the grass ahead and all the way to the little jetty, where La Belle Sauvage was tied up.

Malcolm ran to look. The river was full, holding his beloved canoe higher than usual, and he could see at once that she had been worked on.

“The name — oh, thanks!” he said.

Her name had been painted with great skill in red paint and outlined with a fine line of cream in a way that he would never have managed. It stood out proudly against the green of the boat, which itself… Ignoring the wet grass, he knelt to look closely. Something was different.

“She’s been through the hands of the finest boatbuilder on English waters,” said Coram van Texel. “Every inch of her has been looked at and strengthened, and that paint on her now is a special anti-fouling paint that has another virtue too. She’ll be the slippiest vessel on the Thames, apart from real gyptian boats. She’ll go through the water like a hot knife through butter.”

Malcolm touched the canoe in wonderment.

“Now let me show you something else,” said the visitor. “See those brackets set along the gunwales?”

“What are they for?”

The man reached down into the canoe and pulled up a handful of long, slender hazel sticks. He took one and handed the rest to Malcolm, then he leaned out and slipped one end into a bracket on the far side of the canoe, bent it towards himself, and put the other end in a bracket on the near side. The result was a neat hoop across the canoe.

“You try another,” he said, and shone the lantern on the next bracket. After a few tries Malcolm slipped it in. He found that the stick bent with great ease, but that once both ends were fixed, the stick was completely firm and unmoving.

“What are they for?” he said.

“I won’t show you now, but under the thwart amidships you’ll find a tarpaulin. A special kind made of coal silk. You put all the rods in place and pull the tarpaulin over and you’ll be snug and dry, no matter how much rain comes down. There’s fixings along the edge, but you can work out how to do them.”

“Thank you!” said Malcolm. “That’s — oh, that’s wonderful!”

“It’s Lord Asriel you must thank. But this is his thanks to you, so you’re all square. Now, Malcolm, I need to ask you a question or two. I know you’re visiting a lady called Dr. Relf, and I know why. You can tell her about this, and you can tell her about me, and if she needs to know any more, you can just say the words Oakley Street.”

“Oakley Street.”

“Thassit. That’ll reassure her. Don’t say those words to anyone else, mind. Now, everything you tell her comes back to me in due course, but time’s pressing, and I need to know this urgently. I daresay you see most people who come to the Trout?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You know a lot of ’em by name?”

“Well, some.”

“You ever know of a man by the name of Gerard Bonneville?”

Before Malcolm could answer, he heard the kitchen door open behind him, and his mother’s voice calling, “Malcolm! Malcolm! Where are you?”

“I’m here!” he shouted. “I won’t be a minute.”

“Well, don’t, then,” she called, and went back inside.

Malcolm waited till she shut the door, and then said, “Mr. Van Texel, what’s all this about?”

“I got two warnings for you, and I’ll be off.”

For the first time Malcolm saw another boat on the water — a long, low-cabined launch with a quiet motor that puttered gently and held it against the stream. It showed no lights, and he could just make out a man’s outline at the wheel.

“First,” said Van Texel, “the weather’s going to improve in the next few days. Sunshine, warm winds. Don’t be fooled by it. After that the rain’ll come back even harder, and then there’ll be the biggest flood anyone’s seen for a hundred years, and not a normal flood either. Every river’s full to bursting, and a lot of the weirs are about to give way. The River Board en’t been doing its job. But more’n that, there’s things in the water been disturbed, and things in the sky too, and they’re both clear and bright to them as can read the signs. Tell your mother and father. Be ready.”

“I will.”

“And second, remember that name I said: Gerard Bonneville. You’ll know him if you see him because his dæmon’s a hyena.”

“Oh! Yes! He’s been here. A few days ago. His dæmon’s only got three legs.”

“Has she, now. Did he say anything to you?”

“No. I don’t think anyone wanted to speak to him. He was drinking by himself. He looked nice.”

“Well, he might try to be nice to you, but don’t you go near him. Never let him get you alone. Have nothing to do with him.”

“Thank you,” said Malcolm. “I won’t. Mr. Van Texel, are you a gyptian?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Are the gyptians against the CCD, then?”

“We’re not all the same, Malcolm. Some are, and some aren’t.” He turned to the water and gave a low whistle, and instantly the launch turned its head and glided towards the jetty.

Coram van Texel helped Malcolm haul La Belle Sauvage up onto the grass and then said, “Remember what I told you about the flood. And about Bonneville.”

They shook hands, and the gyptian stepped onto the launch. A moment later the engine sound increased just a little and the boat sped away upstream and was lost in the dark.

“What was that all about?” said his mother two minutes later.

“I lent the canoe to someone, and that man brought it back.”

“Oh. Well, get on and take these dinners through. Table by the big fire.”

There were four plates of roast pork and vegetables. He could only manage two at a time, as they were hot, but he did that as quickly as he could and then brought the diners three pints of Badger and a bottle of IPA, and the evening was under way, as busy a Saturday as they’d had for weeks. Malcolm looked out for the man with the three-legged hyena dæmon, but there was no sign of him. He worked hard and picked up a lot of tips, which would all go into the walrus.

At one point, he heard some men — familiar customers — talking about the river level, and he stopped to listen in the way he’d always done and that hardly anyone noticed.

“It en’t gone up for days,” said someone.

“They know how to manage the level now,” said another. “Remember when old Barley was in charge of the River Board? He used to panic every time there was a shower.”

“It never flooded in his time, mind you,” said a third. “This rain what we been having, that’s exceptional.”

“It’s stopped now, though. The Weather Office—”

Jeers from the others.

“The Weather Office! What do they know?”

“They got the latest philosophical instruments. Course they know what’s going on in the atmosphere.”

“What do they say, then?”

“They say we got fine weather coming.”

“Well, they might be right for once. The wind’s changed, ennit? This is dry air out the north what’s coming along now. You watch — it’ll be clear in the morning, and then it won’t rain for a month. A whole month of sunshine, boys.”

“I en’t so sure. My granny says—”

“Your granny? She know more than the Weather Office?”

“If the army and navy listened to my granny instead of the Weather Office, they’d be better off for it. She says—”

“You know why the river en’t burst its banks? Scientific management of resources, that’s what it is. They know what to do now, better’n in old Barley’s time, how to hold it back and when to let it out.”

“There’s more water up Gloucester way—”

“The water meadows en’t taken up a tenth of what they can. I seen ’em far worse—”

“Scientific management of resources—”

“It all depends on the state of the upper atmosphere—”

“It’s drying out. You watch—”

“My granny—”

“No, we’ve had the worst of it now.”

“Get us another pint of Badger, would you, Malcolm?”

When Malcolm was going to bed, Asta said, “Mr. Van Texel knows a lot more than they do.”

“They wouldn’t listen if we warned them, though,” he said.

“Don’t forget to look up that word… ”

“Oh, yeah!”

Malcolm darted into the sitting room and found the family dictionary. He was going to look up the expression Dr. Relf had used when he’d told her about the spangled ring. He knew what migraine meant because sometimes his mother had one, only she called it my-grain and Dr. Relf had called it me-grain. But the other word…

“Here it is. I thought so.”

Robin Asta peered at the page from his forearm and read, “ ‘Aurora: a luminous celestial phenomenon of anbarical character seen in the polar regions, with a tremulous motion and streamers of light, sometimes known as the northern lights.’… You sure that was the word? It sounded more like Lyra. Two syllables.”

“No, this is it,” said Malcolm firmly. “Aurora. It’s the northern lights, in my head.”

“It doesn’t say spangled, though.”

“Probably it’s different each time. It was tremulous and luminous, all right. Whatever causes the northern lights causes the spangled ring, I bet!”

The thought that the inside of his head was in direct contact with the remote skies above the North Pole gave him a feeling of immense privilege and even awe. Asta was still not quite convinced, but he was thrilled.

In the morning he could hardly wait to go out and look at the canoe in daylight, but his father wanted help clearing up in the bar after the busy evening. La Belle Sauvage would have to wait.

So he hurried between the tables and the kitchen, jamming his fingers through as many tankard handles as he could or carrying four glasses with one finger in each of three and two in the fourth. When he took them through to Alice in the scullery, where he normally just put them down on the counter and left without saying a word, something made him stop and look at her. She seemed unusually distracted this morning, as if there was something on her mind. She kept looking around, clearing her throat as if to speak, turning back to the sink, glancing at Malcolm. He was tempted to say, “What is it? What’s the matter?” but held his tongue.

Then came a moment when his mother was out of the kitchen. Alice looked at Malcolm directly and said under her voice, “Hey, you know the nuns?”

Malcolm was too surprised to answer at first. He had just picked up half a dozen clean glasses that were ready to be taken back to the bar, and he put them down again and said, “In the priory?”

“Course. That’s the only ones there are, en’t there?”

“No. There’s others in other places. What about them?”

“Are they looking after a baby?”

“Yeah.”

“You know whose baby it is?”

“Yeah, I do. So what?”

“Well, there’s a man who— Tell you later.”

Malcolm’s mother had come back. Alice tucked her head down and plunged her hands back into the water. Malcolm picked up the glasses again and carried them through, and found his father reading the paper.

“Dad,” he said, “d’you reckon there’s going to be a flood?”

“Was that what they were on about last night?” said his father, folding back the sports page.

“Yeah. Mr. Addison reckoned there wasn’t, ’cause the air from the north was dry and there’s going to be a month of sunshine, but Mr. Twigg says his granny—”

“Oh, don’t worry about ’em. What’s this about your canoe? Your mother tells me some gyptian came to the door last night.”

“You remember Lord Asriel? I lent it to him, and that man came to return it.”

“I didn’t know he was a pal of the gyptians. What’d he want to borrow your canoe for?”

“ ’Cause he liked canoeing and he wanted to go up the river in the moonlight.”

“There’s no accounting for some people. You’re lucky to get it back. Is it all right?”

“Better than ever. And, Dad, that gyptian man said there was going to be more rain after this bit of sunshine, and then the biggest flood in a hundred years.”

“Did he?”

“He said to warn you. ’Cause the gyptians can read the signs in the water and the sky.”

“Did you warn those old boys last night?”

“No, ’cause they’d already drunk a bit, and I didn’t reckon they’d listen. But he did say to warn you.”

“Well, they are water people, gyptians… That’s worth knowing, just to think about. But no need to take it seriously.”

“He meant it seriously. There’d be no harm in getting ready for it.”

Mr. Polstead considered the matter. “True enough,” he said. “Like Noah. You reckon me and Mum could fit in the La Belle Sauvage along with you?”

“No,” said Malcolm firmly. “But you ought to mend the punt. And maybe Mum ought to keep her flour and stuff up here and not in the cellar.”

“Good idea,” said his father, turning back to the sports page. “You tell her. You cleared the Terrace Room?”

“I’m just going in there.”

Seeing his mother come into the bar and start to talk to his father about vegetables, Malcolm took the glasses from the Terrace Room and hurried back to the kitchen.

“What was that about a man?” he said to Alice.

“I dunno if I should say.”

“If it’s about the baby… You said something about the baby, and then a man. What man?”

“Well, I dunno. Maybe I said too much.”

“No, you en’t said enough. What man?”

She looked around.

“I don’t want to get into trouble,” she said.

“Well, just tell me. I won’t tell on you.”

“All right… This man, his dæmon’s got a leg missing. She’s a hyena or something. Horrible ugly. But he’s nice, or he seems nice enough.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him. You met him, then?”

“Sort of,” she said, and she was blushing, so she turned away. Her jackdaw dæmon looked down from her shoulder and turned his head away from Malcolm too. Then she went on: “I spoken to him a bit.”

“When?”

“Last night. Down Jericho. He was asking about the baby in the priory, the nuns, all that… ”

“What d’you mean, ‘all that’? What else?”

“Well, he said he was the baby’s father.”

“He’s not! Her father’s Lord Asriel. I know that.”

“He said he was, though, and he wanted to know if they kept her safe in the priory, whether they locked the doors at night—”

“What?”

“And how many nuns there were, and that.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

“Gerard. Gerard Bonneville.”

“Did he say why he wanted to know about the nuns and the baby?”

“No. We didn’t only talk about that. But… I dunno… it gave me a weird feeling. And his dæmon chewing at her bloody leg… Except he was nice. He bought me some fish and chips.”

“Was he on his own?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And you? Did you have any friends with you?”

“What if I did?”

“It might have made a difference in what he said.”

“I was on me own.”

Malcolm didn’t know what else to ask. It was clearly important to find out whatever he could, but his imagination was limited at this point: he couldn’t conceive what a grown man would want with a solitary girl at night, or what could pass between them. Nor could he understand why she was blushing.

“Did your dæmon talk to the hyena?” he said after a pause.

“He tried a bit, but she didn’t say nothing.”

She looked down towards the sink and plunged her hands into the water. Malcolm’s mother had come back from the bar. Malcolm carried the clean glasses out, and the moment passed.

But when Alice had finished for the morning and was putting on her coat to leave, Malcolm saw and caught up with her on the porch.

“Alice — wait a minute… ”

“What d’you want?”

“That man — with the hyena dæmon—”

“Forget it. I shouldn’t have said nothing.”

“It’s just that someone warned me about him.”

“Who?”

“A gyptian man. He said not to go near him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But he really meant it. Anyway, if you see him again — Bonneville, I mean — can you tell me what he says?”

“It en’t your business. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“I’m worried about the nuns, you see. I know they’re worried about safety and that, ’cause they told me. That’s why they got the new shutters put up. So if this man Bonneville is trying to find things out about them…”

“He was nice. I told you. Maybe he wants to help them.”

“Well, the thing is, he came in here the other night and no one would go near him. As if they were frightened. My dad says if he comes again, he en’t going to let him in because he keeps other customers away. They know something about him, as if he’s been in prison or something. And there’s that gyptian man who warned me about him.”

“He didn’t worry me.”

“Still, if you see him again, can you tell me?”

“S’pose so.”

“And specially if he asks about the baby.”

“Why are you so worried about the baby?”

“Because she is a baby. There’s no one to protect her except the nuns.”

“And you think you can? Is that it? You’re going to save the baby from the big bad man?”

“Just can you tell me?”

“I said I would. Don’t go on about it.”

She turned away and stamped off quickly in the thin sunshine.

That afternoon, Malcolm went to the lean-to and inspected the improvements to La Belle Sauvage. The tarpaulin of coal silk was as light and impermeable (he tried it) as Mr. Van Texel had said, and the clips to attach it to the gunwales were easy to work and firmly fixed. It was water green in color, like the boat herself, and he thought that when it was in place, he and his vessel would be practically invisible.

The current was running very strongly, so he decided not to take her out and try the slippiness of the new paint, but his fingertips told him the difference. What a gift this was!

There were no other surprises in the canoe, so Malcolm pulled the old tarpaulin over it and made sure it was pegged down.

“It might rain again,” he said to Asta.

But there was no sign of that. The cold sunshine lasted all day, and the sky was red when the sun went down, meaning more sunshine tomorrow. As the sky was clear, the evening was bitterly cold, and for the first time in weeks, there were only a few customers in the Trout. His mother decided not to roast a joint or make a set of pies because most would remain uneaten. It was going to be ham and eggs that evening, with fried potatoes if you were early and bread and butter if you weren’t.

But since so few customers came at all, and since the assistant barman Frank was on duty in case they did, Malcolm and his father and mother sat down together in the kitchen to have supper.

“Might as well finish up these cold potatoes. Can you eat any more, Reg?”

“You bet. Fry ’em up.”

“Malcolm?”

“Yes, please.”

Into the frying pan they went, sizzling and spitting and making Malcolm’s mouth water. He sat there happily with his parents, thinking of nothing, content with the warmth and the smell of frying food.

Then he was aware that his mother had asked him something.

“What?”

“Again, politely,” she said.

“Oh. I beg your pardon?”

“That’s better.”

“The boy’s dreaming,” said his father.

“I said, what were you and Alice talking about?”

“Was he talking to Alice?” said Mr. Polstead. “I thought there was a noncommunication treaty between those two.”

“Nothing in particular,” said Malcolm.

“But come to think of it, he spent five minutes yakking to her on the porch when she left,” said his father. “Must have been important.”

“Not really,” Malcolm said, beginning to feel awkward. He didn’t want to keep things from his parents, but then they didn’t usually have the time to ask anything more than once. A noncommittal answer normally satisfied them. But with nothing else to do this evening, the matter of Malcolm’s talking to Alice became of great interest.

“You were talking to her when I came back in the kitchen,” his mother said. “I could hardly believe my eyes. Is she getting friendly?”

“No, it’s not that,” said Malcolm reluctantly. “She was just asking about the man with the three-legged dæmon.”

“Why?” said his father. “She wasn’t here that night. How’d she know he came in?”

“She didn’t till I told her. She told me about him because he’d been asking her about the nuns.”

“Was he? When?” said his mother, dishing up the fried potatoes.

“In Jericho the other night. He was talking to her and asking about the nuns and the baby.”

“What was he doing talking to her?”

“I dunno.”

“Was she on her own?”

Malcolm shrugged. He’d just put a forkful of hot potato in his mouth and couldn’t speak. But he did see the glance that passed between his parents: an expression of muted alarm.

When he’d swallowed his mouthful, he said, “What is it about that man? Why did everyone move away from him in the bar? And what if he was talking to Alice? She said he was nice.”

“The thing is, Malcolm,” said his father, “he’s got a reputation for violence. And for… for attacking women. People don’t like him. You saw the bar the other night. That dæmon — she has a strange effect on people.”

“He can’t help that,” said Malcolm. “You can’t help what shape your dæmon settles as, can you?”

“You’d be surprised,” came a voice from the floor, gruff and rich and slow. His mother’s badger dæmon rarely spoke, but when he did, Malcolm always listened with close attention.

“You mean you can choose?” he said, surprised.

“You didn’t say you can’t choose; you said you can’t help. You can help, all right, but you don’t know you’re doing it.”

“But how — what do you—”

“Eat your supper and you’ll find out,” he said, and trundled back to his bed in the corner.

“Hmm,” Malcolm said.

They didn’t speak any more about Gerard Bonneville. Malcolm’s mother said she was worried about her mother because she hadn’t been well, and said she’d go over to her house in Wolvercote the next day and see if she was all right.

“Has she got enough sandbags?” said Malcolm.

“She won’t need those anymore,” said his mother.

“Well, Mr. Van Texel said people were going to think it had stopped raining, but the rain was going to come back and there was going to be a big flood.”

“Is there, indeed?”

“He said to warn you.”

“Did you see him, Brenda?” said his father.

“The gyptian? Yes, briefly. Very polite and quiet.”

“They do know the rivers.”

“So Granny might need more sandbags,” said Malcolm. “I’ll help her if she does.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” said his mother. “Have you told the sisters?”

“They’ll all have to come over and stay here,” said Malcolm. “They’d have to bring Lyra.”

“Who’s Lyra?” said his father.

“The baby, of course. The one they’re looking after for Lord Asriel.”

“Oh. Well, there wouldn’t be room for ’em all. We’re probably not holy enough either.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Polstead. “They do the holiness themselves. They’d just need somewhere dry.”

“It probably wouldn’t be for long,” said Malcolm.

“No, it wouldn’t work. But you better tell ’em anyway, like your mum says. What’s for pudding?”

“Stewed apple, and lucky to get it,” she said.

After he’d dried the dishes, Malcolm said good night and went upstairs. There was no homework to do, so he took out the diagram Dr. Relf had given him, the one about the symbols on the alethiometer.

“Be systematic about it,” said Asta.

He didn’t think that deserved an answer, because he was always systematic. They pored over the diagram under the lamplight, and then he wrote down what each of the thirty-six pictures showed, or was intended to show; but they were so small that he couldn’t make them all out.

“We’ll have to ask her,” said Asta.

“Some of ’em are easy, though. Like the skull. And the hourglass.”

But it was laborious work, and once he’d listed all the ones he could recognize and left gaps for the rest, he and Asta both felt they’d spent enough time with it.

They didn’t feel like sleep, and they didn’t feel like reading, so Malcolm took the lamp and they wandered through the guest bedrooms in the old building to look across the river. His own bedroom faced the other way, so he couldn’t keep a regular eye on the priory, but the guest bedrooms were all on the river side because the view was better; and as there happened to be no one staying, he could go where he liked.

In the highest bedroom, just below the eaves, he turned out the lamp and leaned on the windowsill.

“Be an owl,” he whispered.

“I am.”

“Well, I can’t see you. Look over there.”

“I am!”

“Can you see anything?”

There was a pause. Then she said, “One of the shutters is open.”

“Which one?”

“Top floor. Second one along.”

Malcolm could only just make out the windows because the gate light was on the other side of the building, and the half moon shone on that side too; but finally he made it out.

“We’ll have to tell Mr. Taphouse tomorrow,” he said.

“The river’s noisy.”

“Yeah… I wonder if they’ve been flooded before.”

“In all the time the priory’s been there, they must have been.”

“There’d be stories about it. There’d be a picture in a stained-glass window. I’ll ask Sister Fenella.”

Malcolm wondered what single picture small and clear enough to fit on the dial of the alethiometer could symbolize a flood. Maybe it would be a mixture of two pictures, or maybe it was a lower-down meaning of another one altogether. He’d ask Dr. Relf. And he’d tell her what the gyptian had said about the flood — he must certainly do that. He thought of all those books that would be ruined if her house was flooded. Perhaps he could help take them upstairs.

“What’s that?” said Asta.

“What? Where?”

Malcolm’s eyes were adjusted to the dark by this time, or as much as they ever would be, but he couldn’t see more than the stone building and the lighter shapes of the shuttered windows.

“There! Just at the corner of the wall!”

Malcolm widened his eyes and peered as hard as he could. Was there a movement? He wasn’t sure.

But then he did see something at the base of the wall: just a shadow, slightly darker than the building. Something man-sized but not man-shaped — a massive bulk where the shoulders should have been and no head — and it moved with a crabwise shuffle… Malcolm felt a great drench of fear pour over his heart and down into his belly. And then the shadow vanished.

“What was that?” he whispered.

“A man?”

“It didn’t have a head—”

“A man carrying something?”

Malcolm thought. It could have been.

“What was he doing?” he said.

“Going to close the shutter? Mr. Taphouse, maybe?”

“What was he carrying?”

“A bag of tools? I don’t know.”

“I don’t think it was Mr. Taphouse.”

“Nor do I, really,” said Asta. “It didn’t move like him.”

“It’s the man—”

“Gerard Bonneville.”

“Yes. But what’s he carrying?”

“Tools?”

“Oh! I know! His dæmon!”

If she lay across his shoulders, she would account for the bulk, and for the fact that they couldn’t see his head.

“What’s he doing?” said Asta.

“Is he going to climb up—”

“Has he got a ladder?”

“Can’t see.”

They both peered again as fiercely as they could. If it was Bonneville, and he wanted to climb up to the window behind the shutter, he would have to carry his dæmon; he wouldn’t be able to leave her on the ground. Every roofer, tiler, and steeplejack had a dæmon who could fly, or one so small she could come up in a pocket.

“We should tell Dad,” Malcolm said.

“Only if we’re sure.”

“We are, though, en’t we?”

“Well…”

Her reluctance was speaking for his.

“He’s after Lyra,” he said. “He must be.”

“D’you think he’s a murderer?”

“Why would he want to kill a baby, though?”

“I think he’s a murderer,” said Asta. “Even Alice was frightened of him.”

“I thought she liked him.”

“You don’t see much, do you? She was scared stiff as well. That’s why she asked us about him.”

“Maybe he wants to take Lyra because he really is her father.”

“Look—”

The shadow appeared around the side of the building again. And then the man staggered, and the burden on his shoulders seemed to squirm away and fall to the ground; and then they heard a hideous high-pitched cry of laughter.

The man and the dæmon seemed to be spinning around in a mad dance. That uncanny laughter tormented Malcolm’s ears; it sounded like a high hiccupping yell of agony.

“He’s hitting her…,” whispered Asta, unable to believe it.

When she said that, it became clear to Malcolm too. The man had a stick in his hand, and he had forced the hyena dæmon back against the wall. He was thrashing and thrashing her with fury, and she couldn’t escape.

Malcolm and Asta were terrified. She turned into a cat and burrowed into his arms, and he hid his face in her fur. They had never imagined anything so vile.

And the noise had been heard inside the priory. There was a dim light bobbing its way towards the window with the broken shutter, and then it was there, with a pale face beside it, trying to look directly down. Malcolm couldn’t tell which of the nuns it was, but then it was joined by another face, and the window swung open, into the dark and the cries of agonized laughter.

Two heads craned out and looked down. Malcolm heard a commanding call and recognized the voice of Sister Benedicta, though he couldn’t make out the words. In the dim light from the lantern above, Malcolm saw the man look up, and in that instant the hyena dæmon gave a desperate leap sideways, lurching away from the man, who felt the inevitable heart-deep tug as soon as she reached the limit of the invisible bond that joined every human with their dæmon, and stumbled after her.

She dragged herself away, limping as fast as she could, and the terrible fury of the man came after her, thrashing and beating with his stick, and the frenzied laughter-like agony filled the air again. Malcolm saw the two nuns flinch as they saw what was happening; then they pulled the shutter closed and the light vanished.

Gradually the cries faded. Malcolm and Asta clung together with horror.

“Never…,” she whispered.

“… never thought we’d ever see anything like that,” he finished for her.

“What could make him do that?”

“And it was hurting him too. He must be insane.”

They held each other till the noise of that laughter had entirely gone.

“He must hate her,” Malcolm said. “I can’t imagine… ”

“D’you think the sisters saw him doing it?”

“Yeah, when they first looked. But he stopped for a second when one of them called, and his dæmon got away.”

“If it was Sister Benedicta, we could ask…”

“She wouldn’t say. There’s things they like to keep away from us.”

“If she knew we’d seen it, maybe.”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t tell Sister Fenella, though.”

“No, no.”

The man and his tormented dæmon had gone, and there was nothing now but the darkness and the sound of the river; so after another minute Malcolm and Asta crept out of that room in the dark and felt their way to bed.

When they slept, he dreamed of wild dogs, a pack of them, fifty or sixty, all kinds, racing through the streets of a deserted city; and as he watched them, he felt a strange, wild exhilaration that was still there when he woke up in the morning.