The Book of Dust: La Belle Sauvage

Sixteen The Pharmacy

Malcolm could see almost nothing. Apart from the profound darkness of the sky and the slashing rain, the canopy obstructed everything ahead. Besides, it caught the wind and made the canoe lurch unpredictably to the left and right, so he would have found it hard to get a visual fix on anything, even if he could see it. For a few minutes he thought he’d made a horrible mistake in embarking in the canoe, and that they’d be drowned for sure; but what else could they have done? Bonneville would have caught them, stolen Lyra, killed her…

He concentrated on keeping the little boat as upright as possible, steering, not paddling. The force of the flood was sweeping them along without any effort from him, but he had no idea where they were or what they might smash into at any moment: a tree, a bridge, a house— He tried to push the thought away.

There was another problem too. Malcolm was sitting at the stern, and in order to keep the paddle in the water, he had to leave his end of the canoe uncovered by the coal-silk tarpaulin, and the unceasing rain was filling the boat so quickly that his feet were already covered.

“As soon as we find something solid, we’ll tie up!” he shouted to Alice. “And bail this water out.”

“All right” was all she said.

He leaned to the right, trying to see round the canopy, trying to keep the brim of his sou’wester out of his eyes, trying to make out anything in the teeming murk. Something large, tall, dark swept past — a tree? Asta peered ahead, owl-formed, from the rearmost hoop, though the great raindrops slapping at her wide eyes made it almost impossible to see anything.

Then suddenly, “Go left! Go left!” she screeched, and Malcolm dug the paddle into the water and heaved with all his strength as a low-hanging tree slashed its way along the canopy and nearly snatched his sou’wester off his head.

“More trees!” she cried again.

Malcolm dug in the paddle with all his might, shoving desperately against the current, and found the canoe swirling around and bumping and scraping against branches and twigs — and then a thorn-laden branch swept across his face, making him yell, and startling Lyra into loud sobs.

“What is it?” called Alice.

“Nothing. ’S all right, Lyra,” he called back, though his eyes were filled with tears of pain and he could hardly think.

But he kept hold of the paddle, and then found a heavy branch nudging at the hoop where Asta was perching, and he seized that and held the canoe still against it.

He dropped the paddle at his feet and groped for the painter with his free hand. He found it, flung it over the branch, and fumbled a bowline with his cold, wet, trembling fingers.

“Under your feet somewhere there’s a canvas bucket,” he called, and while Alice looked for that, he pulled the canopy back over the last hoop and fixed it around the gunwale, leaving only one fastening open.

“Here y’are,” she said, reaching forward. Lyra was still yelling.

He took the bucket and started to bail, tipping the water over the side where the canopy was still undone. It didn’t take long. Then he realized his boots were full of water too, so he struggled to pull them off and empty them. He fastened the tarpaulin and leaned back, exhausted, and let Asta explore the scratches on his face with a soft clean puppy tongue. It hurt even more, but he tried not to yelp.

At least with the tarpaulin over the boat, he wasn’t out in that brutal rain anymore. It hammered at the coal silk, but not a drop got in.

“Under your seat there’s a tin,” he said. “I sealed it with tape, so there shouldn’t be any water in it. If you pass it here, I’ll open it. There’s some biscuits in it.”

She fumbled around and found the tin. He picked at the tape until he found the end, and opened it. It was perfectly dry. And he’d forgotten: he’d put his Swiss Army knife in there, and a little anbaric torch! He switched it on, dazzled by the brilliance. And it stopped Lyra from crying.

“Give her a biscuit to suck,” he said.

Alice took two, one for herself and one for Lyra, who after waving it around doubtfully found her mouth and began to suck with immense pleasure.

Malcolm saw something out of the corner of his eye — or was it in his eye? A little patch of white on the floor of the canoe. And then, without the slightest warning, it became the shimmering, flickering spot of light, floating in the darkness ahead of him. He blinked and shook his head: this wasn’t a good time for spangled rings, but it wouldn’t go. It floated in midair, scintillating and spinning, flashing and turning.

“What’s the matter?” said Alice. She must have felt him shaking his head or sensed that his attention was distracted.

“Something in my eye. I got to keep still.”

He sat there in the wet discomfort and tried to feel calm. He did feel something, the kind of thing Asta had described on that evening when it came on them during his geography homework, a sort of peaceful, disembodied floating, in a space that was immense or even infinite in all directions. The spangled ring grew larger, just like before, and as before, he was helpless and paralyzed while it came closer and closer and expanded to fill the entire circumference of his vision, but he was never frightened; it wasn’t alarming; in a way it was even comforting, that calm, oceanic drifting. It was his aurora: it was telling him that he was still part of the great order of things, and that that could never change.

He let the phenomenon run its course and came to himself, exhausted, as if the experience had been strenuous and demanding. But the little patch of white was still there on the floor. He felt down and found it: a card of the sort ladies and gentlemen had with their names printed on them. His eyes were still too disturbed to read it, and without a word to Alice he put it in his shirt pocket.

And once all his consciousness was back in the little enclosed space under the canopy, he could easily tell what Alice had made out earlier: Lyra needed changing. Well, there was absolutely nothing they could do about it now.

“What we gonna do?” said Alice.

“Stay awake, that’s the first thing. If the water goes down while the canoe’s still tied to the branch, we’ll get tipped out and left with the canoe halfway up a tree.”

“Yeah, that’d be pretty stupid.”

Lyra was humming, or saying something to Pantalaimon, or just expressing her pleasure in the soggy biscuit.

“Well, she’s easily pleased,” said Malcolm.

“We got to change her soon. She’ll get sore otherwise.”

“That’ll have to wait till we can see where we’re going. And till we can get some hot water to wash her. As soon as it’s morning, we’ll see if we can paddle back home.”

“He’ll still be around,” she said.

That was the least of it, Malcolm thought. The force of the flood might prevent them from going back anyway; they might find themselves swept all the way through Oxford and on to… where?

“Well, we’ll aim for a house or a shop or something where we can get — whatever she needs,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Alice. “All right.”

“There’s a blanket down there if you’re cold. Wrap it round both of you.”

More fumbling, and then she found it.

“It’s soaking wet,” she said. “You going to stay awake?”

“Yeah. Keep watch. I’ll try anyway.”

“Well, wake me up when you can’t anymore.”

He switched the torch off. The canoe certainly wasn’t made for sleeping in. Even if he’d wanted to stretch out, there was still an inch or so of freezing water in the bottom that he couldn’t get out with the bucket; and even if it had been dry, there was nowhere to rest his head but the wooden seat; and even if even if, as Asta had said earlier.

In fact, there was plenty to complain about. But Alice hadn’t complained once. He was impressed, and vowed not to say a word about the pain from the thorn scratches across his face.

He felt her settling down at the other end of the little boat. Lyra had stopped crying, thanks to the biscuit, and was dozing in Alice’s arms. Alice had propped herself inside the bow, with her knees up over the front seat, so as to make her body and arms a cradle for Lyra. Her dæmon was squeezed down beside her.

Asta became a ferret and settled around Malcolm’s neck.

“Where do you think we are?” she whispered.

“Somewhere down Port Meadow. There’s that oratory off to the right with a grove of trees… ”

“That’s nowhere near the river.”

“I don’t think there’s a river anymore. This is ever so much higher. There’s water everywhere.”

“Yeah… D’you think we’ll get swept away?”

“No. We managed to tie up in the dark, didn’t we? Once we can see, in the morning, we’ll find our way back.”

“It’s going ever so fast, though.”

“Well, we’ll stay tied up till it stops, then.”

Asta was silent for a few minutes, but he knew she hadn’t gone to sleep; he could feel her thinking.

“Suppose it never stops?” she whispered.

“The gyptian man didn’t say it’d do that. Just that there was going to be a flood.”

“It feels as if it’s going on forever.”

“There isn’t enough water in all the world to do that. Eventually it’ll stop and the sun’ll come out. Every flood stops in the end and goes down.”

“This time might be different.”

“It won’t.”

“What’s on that card?” she said after a moment. “The one you picked up.”

“Oh, yeah…”

He fished it out of his pocket, and shading the torch with his hand so it wouldn’t wake Alice, he read:

LORD ASRIEL

October House

Chelsea

London

On the back were written the words With many thanks. If you need my help at any time, be sure to ask. Asriel.

An idea came to him, glittering, shimmering, spangled with brilliance. Asta knew what it was at once, and whispered, “Don’t tell Alice.” The idea was to set off over the flood, all the way down the Thames, and find Lord Asriel and take his child to him. It was almost as if that was why Lord Asriel had paid for La Belle Sauvage to be improved, as if he knew the flood was coming and had prepared a safe vessel for his daughter, and as if the faithful canoe had given the message to Malcolm. He felt the idea warming him through and through.

And they agreed wordlessly: Don’t tell Alice. Not yet. He tucked the card back in his pocket and switched off the torch.

The rain was beating on the tarpaulin just as furiously as it had been doing since they started, and if anything, Malcolm thought, feeling cautiously along the painter, the canoe was higher in the tree than it had been when he tied it. Even worse than being tipped out as the water fell would be being dragged below as it rose.

Still, a bowline was a good knot, and he’d be able to undo it in the dark, if he needed to.

“Mind you,” he whispered, “a slipped reef knot would be even better. Just one pull…”

“Should’ve practiced,” Asta whispered back.

Another few minutes of silence. He felt his head nodding and snapped it upright.

“Don’t fall asleep,” she urged.

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Yes, you are.”

Malcolm supposed he replied, but the next thing he knew was when his thorn-slashed face met the gunwale. He’d slipped over little by little till he was almost horizontal.

“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, though.”

“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.”

“Right, let go and I’ll catch it and tie us up.”

She did. The canoe moved along under the green cross, and Malcolm caught hold of the bracket. He tied a bowline again, just in case, because his fingers knew it and he trusted it. They were right next to an upstairs window.

“I’m going to smash the glass,” he said. “Cover her face.”

He swung the paddle, and the glass fell inward with a crash that might have sounded loud in normal circumstances but that he could hardly hear for the noise of the water. He thought that normally he’d feel guilty about that, but it would be more guilty by far to keep Lyra outside in the cold and the wet.

“I’ll go in,” he said, but Alice said, “No! Wait.”

He looked at her in puzzlement.

“Knock all the glass out first, else you’ll get slashed to ribbons,” she explained.

He saw the sense of that, and went round the sash frame knocking every shard of glass into the room behind it.

“It’s empty,” he said. “No furniture or anything.”

“I expect they called the movers when they heard the flood was coming,” she said.

He was glad she was being sarcastic. It sounded like her again.

When the frame was clear of glass, Malcolm stood up carefully and put both hands on it, then one leg through, and then the other, and then he was in.

“Pass me Lyra,” he said.

Alice had to move to the middle of the canoe, which was difficult, and Lyra was squirming and yelling, which didn’t help; but after a minute or so of negotiation, while Asta, hawk-formed, carried the protesting swallow-chick Pan, Alice held up the blanket-wrapped child, and Malcolm took her through into the empty room.

“Cor! You smell like a farmyard, Lyra,” he said. “That’s a champion stink, that is. Well, we’ll clean you up soon.”

“ ‘We,’ ” said Alice, now in the room beside him. “I like that we. You’ll be off tying knots or summink. It’ll be me what cleans her up.”

“A pharmacy’s all right,” said Malcolm. “But I wish they sold food. Look, there’s a storeroom through there.”

It was as good as a treasure-house. In the storeroom was everything needed for baby care, and medicines of all sorts, and even biscuits and various kinds of juice.

“We need hot water,” said Alice, unimpressed.

“There might still be some in a tank. I’ll go and have a look,” said Malcolm, seeing a small bathroom, and becoming suddenly aware that he badly needed to relieve himself. He found that the lavatory flushed, the taps ran, and there was even a trickle of warmish water. He hastened to tell Alice.

“Right,” she said. “Now go and find some of them nappies, the ones you throw away. We’ll wash her and change her first, and then feed her. If you can find a way of boiling the water, so much the better. And don’t drink it.”

There were logs and kindling and paper in the fireplace in the empty room, and Malcolm looked for a saucepan or something to boil water in, blessing the farseeing proprietor who had stocked his shop so comprehensively. No doubt there was every kind of domestic utensil downstairs, but as the floodwater had risen to just under the top step of the staircase, there was no way of getting them; and what a stroke of luck that they stored their wares up here rather than in a basement. And there was even a little kitchen, with a gas stove (not working) and a kettle.

He took out his knife and struck the sparker again and again on the rasp, producing a shower of sparks each time, which each time failed to light the paper in the fireplace.

“What you doing?” said Alice, throwing him a box of matches. “Idiot.”

He sighed, struck a match, and soon had the fire blazing. He filled the kettle from the cold tap and held it over the flames.

Lyra had been yelling as Alice washed her and put a clean, dry nappy on her, but it was a shout of general anger rather than distress. Her little dæmon, who had been a very disheveled rat, became a miniature bulldog and joined in the row till Alice’s greyhound dæmon picked him up and shook him, which startled the child into outraged silence.

“That’s better,” said Alice. “Now keep quiet. I’ll give you a feed in a minute, when that boy’s boiled some water.”

She took Lyra into the little kitchen and laid her on the draining board while Malcolm nursed the little flames. He had to wrap his hands in the wet blanket to keep them from burning as he held the kettle. There was nowhere to balance it on the fire.

“At least it’s drying the blanket,” he said to Asta.

“Suppose the shopkeeper comes?” his dæmon said.

“Nobody would expect us not to change and feed a baby. ’Cept maybe Bonneville.”

“It was him in the night, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. He must be mad. Really mad.”

“Are we really going to take her all the way to—”

“Shh.”

He looked around, but Alice was in the other room washing Lyra.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Got to now.”

“Why not tell Alice, then?” she whispered back.

“ ’Cause she wouldn’t want to. She’d stay behind or give us away or something. And take Lyra.”

The fire was settling into a proper glow, and the heat on his hands and his face made Malcolm all the more aware of how cold and soaking wet the rest of him was. He was shifting uncomfortably when Alice spoke behind him.

“Where’s that water?”

“Oh… nearly boiling.”

“You better boil it for a few minutes. Kill all the germs. Then let it cool. So I reckon it’ll be a while yet before I can mix her feed.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Well, she smells better. But her poor little bum’s all sore.”

“There must be some cream or something—”

“Yeah, there is. Good thing this is a pharmacy and not a bloody ironmonger’s. Don’t spill that water.”

The water was boiling, and his hand was feeling scorched.

“Can you get me some cold water?” he said. “I need to wet this blanket again. My hand’s getting burned.”

She went out and came back with a jug. She poured the water carefully over the blanket, and his hand immediately felt worse, more tender altogether. He took the kettle away and looked around.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m going to find something better to hold it with.”

He didn’t have to look far. In the little pile of logs beside the fire, there was one that, when he propped it against the hearth, was the right height to stand the kettle on, half on and half off the fire.

“If that falls off—”

“I know,” he said. “You stay and watch it for a minute.”

He stood up and went to look at Lyra, finding her comfortable enough on the floor with a biscuit in her fist. Asta licked the head of the little puppy Pantalaimon, and Lyra responded with a stream of gurgles.

In the storeroom Malcolm found what he was looking for: a pencil. He wrote on the landing wall: “Malcolm Polstead of the Trout Inn at Godstow will pay for any damage and what we have taken.”

Then he found a pile of new towels and carried them through to the broken window, where he leaned out and mopped the inside of the canoe.

“Let’s try and keep you dry now,” he said to her.

The rain had stopped, but the air was saturated, and the wind was whipping spray off the flood. The level had not gone down at all.

“Well, we’ve only been here half an hour,” said Asta.

“I wish we could hide it a bit. If Bonneville goes past the end of the street, he’ll see it straightaway.”

“But he never saw the canoe in daylight,” she pointed out. “It was pitch-dark. We might be in a punt, for all he knows.”

“Hmm,” said Malcolm, fastening the canopy down all round.

“Here, Malcolm,” Alice called. “Come here.”

“What?” he said, pulling himself back in through the window.

“Sit on that stool and keep still,” she said.

“Why?”

She’d taken the kettle off the fire, so it must have come to a boil. She had a damp cloth in one hand, and with the other she turned his head this way and that, not roughly but firmly, while she dabbed at his face. He realized why as soon as she began.

“Ow!”

“Shut up. You look horrible with all them scratches. Besides, you might get germs in ’em. Keep still!”

He put up with the stinging and held his tongue. When she’d finished cleaning off the dried blood, she dabbed some antiseptic cream on.

“Stop wriggling. It can’t hurt that much.”

It did, though he would never dream of saying so. He gritted his teeth and put up with it.

“There,” she said. “I dunno whether you need a bandage or two—”

“They’ll only come off.”

“Suit yourself. Now let me have the stool. I got to feed Lyra.”

She tested the temperature of the water as Sister Fenella had done, and then sprinkled in some milk powder and stirred it up well.

“Give us that bottle,” she said.

Malcolm passed her the bottle and the rubber teat.

“Ought to sterilize everything, really,” she said.

He went to pick the child up. Pan was a sparrow chick now, so Asta became a bird too, a greenfinch this time.

“You finished your biscuit?” he said to Lyra. “You won’t want any milk, then. I’ll have it.”

She was full of beans, as his mother would have said. He passed her over to Alice and then went to the window again, because the thought of his mother had brought sudden, helpless tears to his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” said Alice suspiciously.

“Stinging.”

He leaned out the window, trying to see any sign of movement in the other buildings, but there was none. Windows were curtained or uncurtained, but there were no lights glowing, no sounds apart from the surge and rush of the water.

Then he did see something moving. Asta saw it first and uttered a little gasp and fled to his breast as a kitten, and then he saw it too. It came floating down the street towards them, bumping into the housefronts, dull and soft and half submerged. It was the body of a woman facedown in the water, drowned and dead.

“What should we do?” whispered Asta.

“Nothing we can do.”

“I said ‘should.’ That’s different.”

“I suppose… we should pull her out and lay her down. Sort of treat her with respect. I dunno. But if the shopkeeper came back and found a dead woman in his shop…”

For a few moments it looked as if the poor dead woman was trying to get lodged between the shopfront and the canoe. Malcolm dreaded having to reach for the paddle and push her away, but in the end the current carried her down the street. Malcolm and Asta stopped looking; it felt disrespectful.

“What happens to dæmons when people die?” Asta whispered.

“I dunno… maybe her dæmon was small, like a bird, and he’s in her pocket or something… ”

“Maybe he got left behind.”

But that was too horrible to think about. They looked back once at the dead woman, now some distance away, and tried to think of something else.

“Stores,” said Malcolm. “We ought to take as much as we can pack in the boat.”

“Why?” demanded Alice. She was standing right behind them, giving Lyra a break. He hadn’t known she was there.

“In case we can’t get back,” said Malcolm calmly. “You saw how strong the flood is. In case we get swept further down where there aren’t any shops or houses or anything.”

“We could stay here.”

“Bonneville’s going to find us if we do that.”

She thought. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe.”

She patted Lyra on the back, and the child burped loudly.

“What’s he want her for, anyway?” Alice said.

“He wants to kill her, prob’ly. Vengeance.”

“For what?”

“On her parents. I dunno. Anyway…”

“Anyway what?”

“That sanctuary thing… We prob’ly couldn’t have got her into Jordan College, even if we could’ve reached it, because you have to say something in Latin, and I don’t know what it is. So maybe—”

Alice looked at him narrowly. Something had changed.

“What?” he said.

“You never meant to go back, did you?”

“Course I did—”

“No, you didn’t. I can read you like a book, you little bastard.”

Suddenly she reached forward and snatched the little white card from his shirt pocket. She read both sides, her face pinched with anger, and flung it to the floor.

Then she kicked his leg hard. She couldn’t do anything else with the baby in her arms, and now Lyra was picking up her anger and seemed frightened. Malcolm moved out of range.

“You’re just imagining—”

“No I en’t! You meant to, didn’t you? Eh? I saw you look at this card in the canoe when you thought I was asleep. And you meant to take me with you to look after the kid.”

She kicked him again, and her dæmon growled and tried to seize Asta, who became a bird easily enough and flew up out of reach. Malcolm simply retreated and picked up the stool.

“And what you gonna do with that, eh? Hit me over the head? I’d like to see you try. I’d— Hush, hush, little one. Don’t cry now. Alice has just lost her temper with that little piece of sewage over there, but not with you, my lovely. Put that bloody stool down where it was. I haven’t finished feeding her. And put another log on the fire.”

Malcolm did as she said. When she’d sat down and put the bottle back to Lyra’s mouth, he said, “Think what happened last night. We didn’t have any choice. We couldn’t have done anything different. We had to come to the Trout — there was nowhere else to go, no other way to be safe. There was only the canoe. We had to get in it and—”

“Shut up. Just stop bloody talking. I got to think what to do now.”

“We can’t stay here. He’ll find us.”

“Shut up!”

Something was trickling down his forehead into his right eye. It was blood: the scratches had opened up. He mopped it with his handkerchief, which, like everything else, was still damp, and retreated to the storeroom.

“Well, we knew she had a temper,” whispered Asta.

“Hmm.”

The fact was, they were both shaken. Alice’s fury was harder to face than the dead woman in the water, harder than the thought of Gerard Bonneville.

Malcolm turned to the shelves, but he couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t think of stocking the canoe or anything else; his mind was swirling like the flood.

“We got to explain,” he said quietly to Asta.

“D’you think she’ll listen?”

“At least if she’s got Lyra on her lap…”

He found a bottle of orange juice and twisted the top off.

“What’s that for?” snapped Alice when he offered it to her.

“Breakfast.”

“Stick it up your arse.”

“Just listen. Let me explain.”

In return she glared, but said nothing. He went on. “Lyra’s in danger wherever she is — wherever in Oxford, anyway. Even if the priory is safe and the nuns are all alive, there’s two lots of people, at least, trying to get hold of her. One’s Bonneville. I dunno what he’s up to, but he wants her, and he’s violent and he’s mad. He beats his own dæmon. I think it was him that broke her leg so she lost it. We can’t let him get hold of Lyra. Then there’s the…”

“Office of Child Protection,” said Asta.

“Office of Child Protection. You heard, when I was telling Mum about them. And your dæmon…”

“Oh, yeah,” said Alice. “Bastards.”

“But there’s scholastic sanctuary, right. Like I told you in the night.”

“Oh, yeah. If it’s true. And if we could get back to Jordan College, with the flood like this. They’d never let us in anyway. So much for that idea.”

“But there’s Lord Asriel. Lyra’s father. You remember, I told you… he’s on the other side from the CCD. And he clearly loves her — that’s obvious. So I thought we should take her to him because no one else would protect her. The Office of Child Protection people will come back to the priory, and the nuns will be all busy with clearing up and rebuilding and they wouldn’t be able to look after her properly, even Sister Benedicta. And then there’s Bonneville. He’s… well, he’s wild. He’s out of control. He could snatch her anytime. And Sister Katarina, she’d give her away to him… ”

Alice considered that, and then said, “What about your mum and dad? Why couldn’t they look after her?”

“They got their hands full with the pub. And the CCD could come again. There’s no defense against the CCD. If they wanted to search the pub from top to bottom, they could do it, and no one could stop ’em. And then there’s the League of St. Alexander. Someone could tell their kid that Lyra was there and the kid might be a member and he’d give her away.”

“Hmm,” said Alice. She put the bottle down and lifted Lyra up to pat her back. “Well, there’s her mother.”

“She’s on the side of the CCD. She started the League of St. Alexander!”

Alice stood and walked up and down slowly. Pantalaimon began a chirruping conversation as a baby swallow, and Lyra joined in, and so did Asta. Alice’s dæmon, lying mastiff-shaped on the hearth, opened one eye to look. Malcolm said nothing and kept still. Finally Alice turned and spoke: “How you going to find him, then, this Lord Asriel?”

Malcolm picked up the card. “This is his address,” he said. “That’s what made me think of it. Anyway, the gyptians’ll know. If we see any gyptians. Besides, he’s a famous man. It won’t be hard to find him.”

Alice snorted. “You’re a mooncalf,” she said.

“I don’t know what one of them is.”

“Look in the bloody mirror, then.”

He said nothing because it seemed safer. Alice moved to the window and looked out briefly.

“Get me one of them blankets,” she said.

He found one, opened it, and put it around her shoulders.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said.

“ ’Cause it all happened so quick.”

“But you’d been planning it. The stuff you already had in the canoe.”

“I wasn’t thinking of going away, not yet. I didn’t know the flood would come so soon. And if I had, I’d have prob’ly taken Sister Fenella, ’cause I couldn’t look after a baby and paddle the—”

“Sister Fenella? What did I call you? A mooncalf? You’re a bloody gormless staring idiot.”

“Well, someone—”

“It always had to be me. There en’t anyone else.”

“Well, why’d you kick me, then?”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Or ask me, better.”

“I only just thought of it in the night, when we were tied up to that tree.”

She went back to the fire and put the last log on. “So what’s the plan, then?” she said.

“Keep going downstream. Keep out of Bonneville’s way. Find our way to Lord Asriel.”

He had to clean the blood out of his eye again. He wiped his hand on his trousers, which were nearly dry now.

“Sit down and take Lyra,” said Alice. “I’m going to put a bandage on there — I don’t care what you say. You’re going to drive me mad, blinking blood out of your eye all the time.”

She did it more gently than before. Then she held out the packet of bandages and the tube of antiseptic cream.

“You can put them in the boat, to start with. And more blankets and some pillows, if they got any. It was bloody freezing last night. And a load of them nappies that you can throw away. And matches. And that saucepan. And all them biscuits…”

She went on without a pause, listing so many things that the canoe would have sunk under them all. Malcolm nodded earnestly to everything.

“Well, go on, then,” she said.

So he began. He gathered the things in the order he thought them important, so pillows and dry blankets came first, and then nappies and baby milk and other things for Lyra. Alice didn’t seem inclined to help, and he dared not ask, so with each armful of cargo he had to lean out the window, pull the canoe close, drop it in, and then climb down and stow it in as shipshape a way as he could. He put a number of blankets in the prow for Alice to sit on, to keep the cold of the water below the hull away from her, and a couple of pillows there for her to lean on.

“She’s very strange,” Asta whispered when they were outside. “She could have whined and moaned all night, but she said nothing.”

“I wish she hadn’t kicked me, though.”

“But she looked after your scratches… ”

“Shh!”

Malcolm had seen a movement at the end of the street, and then it became clearer: a dinghy, with two men in it, neither of them Bonneville. One was rowing, so the other could look forward, and as soon as he saw Malcolm in the canoe, he said something to the rower, who turned to look.

“Hey!” one of them shouted. “What you doing?”

Malcolm didn’t answer. Instead, he called in through the window, “Alice, bring Lyra here.”

“Why?” she said, but he’d turned away.

The dinghy was much closer: the man was rowing fast. When they were near enough for Malcolm not to have to shout, he said, “We got a baby to look after. We had to go in here because she was freezing.”

Alice appeared beside him and saw the men, who were now close enough to reach out and take hold of the canoe.

“What you want?” she said, holding Lyra in her arms; the child was nearly asleep.

“Just making sure everything’s all right and no one’s doing what they shouldn’t,” said the man who wasn’t rowing.

“You got a baby there?” said the rower.

“It’s my sister,” said Alice. “Our house was going to fall down when the flood come, so we got away in the boat. But we been out all night and she’s ever so cold and we had to stop and find somewhere to feed and change her. If there was someone here, we’d have asked, but the place was empty.”

“What you putting in the boat?” the other man asked Malcolm.

“Blankets and pillows. We’re going to try and get home because our parents’ll be worried. But in case we got to stay in the boat another night—”

“Why don’t you just stay here?”

“ ’Cause of our parents,” said Alice. “Didn’t you hear? They’ll be worried. We got to try and get back soon as we can.”

“Where to?”

“You a policeman or something? What’s it got to do with you?”

“Sandra, they’re just looking after the place,” said Malcolm. “We live in Wolvercote. Last night we got swept all down Port Meadow. We’re going to try and get back through the city, but in case we get stuck again…”

“What’s your name?”

“Richard Parsons. This is my sister Sandra. And the baby’s Ellie.”

“Where was your mother and father last night?”

“Our grandmother was took ill yesterday. They went to see her, and while they was out, the flood come.”

The rower was manipulating his oars to keep the boat still on the water. He said to the other man, “Leave ’em be. They’re all right.”

“You know it’s theft, what you’re doing?” the other man said. “Looting?”

“It en’t looting,” said Alice, but Malcolm spoke over her and said, “We’re only taking what we need to stay alive and keep the baby fed. And as soon as the flood goes down, my dad’ll come down here and pay for what we took.”

“If you make your way into town,” said the rower, “and find the town hall — you know where that is? St. Aldate’s?”

Malcolm nodded.

“There’s an emergency station there. It’s full of people been flooded out, and plenty of helpers. You’ll find everything you need up there.”

“Thanks,” said Malcolm. “We’ll do that. Thank you.”

The men nodded and began to row away.

“Sandra,” said Alice with deep contempt. “Couldn’t you think of nothing better than that?”

“No,” said Malcolm.

And ten minutes later, they were moving again, Sandra/Alice wrapped up warm in the bow, a clean and dry and fed Lyra/Ellie fast asleep on her chest. La Belle Sauvage was lower in the water than she’d been since Malcolm took Sister Benedicta to the parcel depot, but she moved with all her new eagerness and responded to the paddle like a powerful steed to her master’s touch on the reins. Well, Malcolm thought, it could all have gone far worse. They were still alive, and they were moving south.