“I reckon its a spirit,” Lyra said, and for a moment she was tempted to throw the little thing into the middle of the fen.
He clasped the womans shoulder on the way out. Lyra stuck close to him on the jetty, because there was a crowd gathering already, whispering and pointing.
At Gabriel College there was a very holy object kept on the high altar of the oratory, covered (now Lyra thought about it) with a black velvet cloth, like the one around the alethiometer. She had seen it when she accompanied the Librarian of Jordan to a service there. At the height of the invocation the Intercessor lifted the cloth to reveal in the dimness a glass domeinside which there was something too distant to see, until he pulled a string attached to a shutter above, letting a ray of sunlight through to strike the dome exactly. Then it became clear: a little thing like a weathervane, with four sails black on one side and white on the other, that began to whirl around as the light struck it.
Jacobs eyes rolled to look at Farder Coram sitting on the opposite bunk, a foot or two away.
“Id see a spirit if there was one in there,” said Pantalaimon. “Like that old ghost in Godstow. I saw that when you didnt.”
“Wheres Peter now?”
Coulter, and watched as she read the alethiometer.
“It could be!” he insisted. “You remember that photomill they got at Gabriel?
“So what dyou think that might mean?”
He stopped again.
Jacob nodded, and cast his eyes at his daemon. It was unusual for daemons to speak to humans other than their own, but it happened sometimes, and she spoke now.
Benjamin said him and Gerard Hook should break into the Ministry and Frans Broekman and Tom Mendham should go and find out about Lord Boreal.”
There was the sound of feet and voices outside on the jetty.
“And is there just the one?”
“He was with Benjamin de Ruyter,” said Farder Coram. “Whats happened?”
“Ive sent for the physician, Farder Coram,” said the woman shakily. “Please dont agitate him. Hes in an agony of pain. He come in off Peter Hawkers boat just a few minutes ago.”
“Probably. What are you asking it, Lyra?”
Meanwhile, all around her the tantalizing work of assembling the expedition was going on day and night. She hung around Adam Stefanski, watching as he made his choice of the volunteers for the fighting force. She pestered Roger van Poppel with suggestions about the stores they needed to take: Had he remembered snow goggles? Did he know the best place to get arctic maps?
“I think itd be best if I helped you, Farder Coram,” she said, “because I probably know more about the Gobblers than anyone else, being as I was nearly one of them. Probably youll need me to help you understand Mr. de Ruyters messages.”
“You captured some Gobblers?” said Farder Coram.
“It might be...it might be elementary particles.” She scoffed.
She found John Faa with Farder Coram and the other leaders, looking troubled.
“Come back to Benjamin,” said Farder Coram, hearing Jacobs breathing getting harsher and seeing his eyes close in pain.
“Well, what else could it be?”
Sophonax was as sleek and healthy and beautiful as Farder Coram was ravaged and weak. He might have been ill, or he might have suffered a crippling blow, but the result was that he could not walk without leaning on two sticks, and he trembled constantly like an aspen leaf. His mind was sharp and clear and powerful, though, and soon Lyra came to love him for his knowledge and for the firm way he directed her.
“Dyou know what I noticed, Farder Coram? The needle stops there on the second go-round! On the first round it kind of twitches, and on the second it stops. Is that saying its the second meaning, then?”
“What happened?” said Farder Coram.
“Lyra, as soon as we know whether Jacobs going to live or die, we must have another talk about that alethiometer. You go and occupy yourself elsewhere, child; well send for you.”
“Im a thinking—” she stopped, surprised to find that shed actually been asking a question without realizing it. “I just put three pictures together because...! was thinking about Mr. de Ruyter, see....And I put together the serpent and the crucible and the beehive, to ask how hes a getting on with his spying, and—”
He took pity on the fierce, desperate little girl and didnt send her away.
Lyra looked at his daemon. She was a ferret, and she lay very still beside his head, curled up but not asleep, for her eyes were open and glazed like his.
“We was breaking into the Ministry of Theology, because Benjamin had heard from one of the Gobblers we caught that the headquarters was there, thats where all the orders was coming from....”
“Hello, Farder Coram,” he murmured.
She screwed up her eyes and peered.
Well, then.”
“He wont speak,” said the young man. “You better come, Farder Coram, cause he wont last long, hes a bleeding inside.”
Farder Coram gave orders for Peter Hawker to go at once to John Faa, and then said:
The daemons voice was fainter, and a groan came from the wounded man. Farder Coram leaned forward and gently pulled back the counterpane, and there protruding from Jacobs shoulder was the feathered end of an arrow in a mass of clotted blood. The shaft and the head were so deep in the poor mans chest that only six inches or so remained above the skin. Lyra felt faint.
Jacobs daemon gave a little mew of anxiety and love, and the woman took a step or two closer, her hands to her mouth; but she didnt speak, and the daemon went on faintly:
“And so them Gobblers told us about the Ministry of Theology and Lord Boreal.
“Death...Is that death?”
“And we couldnt see anything of Gerard, but there was a howl from above in his voice and we were too terrified and stunned to move, and then an arrow shot down at our shoulder and pierced deep down within....”
“Why them three symbols?”
“Because I thought the serpent was cunning, like a spy ought to be, and the crucible could mean like knowledge, what you kind of distill, and the beehive was hard work, like bees are always working hard; so out of the hard work and the cunning comes the knowledge, see, and thats the spys job; and I pointed to them and I thought the question in my mind, andthe needle stopped at death....Dyou think that could be really working, Farder Coram?”
“We dont know. They never came back. Farder Coram, it were like everything we did, they knew about before we did it, and for all we know Frans and Tom were swallowed alive as soon as they got near Lord Boreal.”
“Quite right. Now, Jacob, can ye hear me?”
“That was only a night-ghast.”
The young man led them to a boat tied up at the sugar-beet jetty, where a woman in a red flannel apron held open the door for them. Seeing her suspicious glance at Lyra, Farder Coram said, “Its important the girl hears what Jacobs got to say, mistress.”
“There maybe others, but thats the one Ive seen.”
“It might not be a spirit,” said Pantalaimon stubbornly.
Farder Coram and Lyra exchanged a look of alarm and wonderment, but only for a second, and then Farder Coram was hobbling out on his sticks as fast as he could manage, with his daemon padding ahead of him. Lyra came too, hopping with impatience.
“I bet theres one in Bodleys Library in Oxford,” she said.
“Whats that hourglass mean, Farder Coram?” she asked, over the alethiometer, one sunny morning in his boat. “It keeps coming back to that.”
Lyra wandered away on her own, and went to the reedy bank to sit and throw mud into the water. She knew one thing: she was not pleased or proud to be able to read the alethiometer— she was afraid. Whatever power was making that needle swing and stop, it knew things like an intelligent being.
Farder Coram sat up and said, “Heres the physician, Jacob. Well leave you now.
“Beg pardon, Farder Coram, theres Jacob Huismans just come back, and hes sore wounded.”
“Theres more than one kind of spirit,” said Lyra reprovingly. “You cant see all of em. Anyway, what about those old dead Scholars without their heads? I saw them, remember.”
“In Heidelberg,” he said.
She had to stop and pant briefly, her little chest fluttering, before she could go on.
“Thats a skull!”
His voice was hoarse and his breath was shallow. When he stopped speaking, his daemon uncurled painfully and licked his cheek, and taking strength from that he went on:
Well have a longer talk when youre feeling better.”
When the sunlight touched her, it lit up more shades of tawny-brown-leaf-hazel-corn-gold-autumn-mahogany than Lyra could name. She longed to touch that fur, to rub her cheeks against it, but of course she never did; for it was the grossest breach of etiquette imaginable to touch another persons daemon. Daemons might touch each other, of course, or fight; but the prohibition against human-daemon contact went so deep that even in battle no warrior would touch an enemys daemon. It was utterly forbidden. Lyra couldnt remember having to be told that: she just knew it, as instinctively as she felt that nausea was bad and comfort good. So although she admired the fur of Sophonax and even speculated on what it might feel like, she never made the slightest move to touch her, and never would.
“Wheres that book with all the symbols in?” she asked him one day.
“It was not. They were proper spirits all right, and you know it. But whatever spiritss moving this blooming needle ent that sort of spirit.”
“Benjamins dead,” came the answer. “Hes dead, and Gerards captured.”
The man she most wanted to help was Benjamin de Ruyter, the spy. But he had slipped away in the early hours of the morning after the second roping, and naturally no one could say where hed gone or when hed return. So in default, Lyra attached herself to Farder Coram.
Instead he talked to her, and listened to her memories of Oxford and of Mrs.
“We caught three Gobblers in Clerkenwell and made them tell us who they were working for and where the orders came from and so on. They didnt know where the kids were being taken, except it was north to Lapland....”
And even if she got to the coast on her own, she might stow away on the wrong ship. It would be a fine thing to hide in a lifeboat and wake up on the way to High Brazil.
It was Tony Costa, waving to her from the jetty.
“Hes a tying up. It was him said I had to send for you.”
So the woman let them in and stood back, with her squirrel daemon perched silent on the wooden clock. On a bunk under a patchwork coverlet lay a man whose white face was damp with sweat and whose eyes were glazed.
So perhaps Pantalaimon was right. If elementary particles could push a photomill around, no doubt they could make light work of a needle; but it still troubled her.
Over the next few days, Lyra concocted a dozen plans and dismissed them impatiently; for they all boiled down to stowing away, and howcould you stow away on a narrowboat? To be sure, the real voyage would involve a proper ship, and she knew enough stories to expect all kinds of hiding places on a full-sized vessel: the lifeboats, the hold, the bilges, whatever they were; but shed have to get to the ship first, and leaving the fens meant traveling the gyptian way.
“Theres often a clue there if you look more close. Whats that little old thing on top of it?”
“Its working all right, Lyra. What we dont know is whether were reading it right. Thats a subtle art. I wonder if—”
“Benjamin and Gerard and us went to the Ministry at White Hall and found a little side door, it not being fiercely guarded, and we stayed on watch outside while they unfastened the lock and went in. They hadnt been in but a minute when we heard a cry of fear, and Benjamins daemon came a flying out and beckoned to us for help and flew in again, and we took our knife and ran in after her; only the place was dark, and full of wild forms and sounds that were confusing in their frightful movements; and we cast about, but there was a commotion above, and a fearful cry, and Benjamin and his daemon fell from a high staircase above us, his daemon a tugging and a fluttering to hold him up, but all in vain, for they crashed on the stone floor and both perished in a moment.
It illustrated a moral lesson, the Intercessor explained, and went on to explain what that was. Five minutes later Lyra had forgotten the moral, but she hadnt forgotten the little whirling vanes in the ray of dusty light. They were delightful whatever they meant, and all done by the power of photons, said the Librarian as they walked home to Jordan.
She could hardly take her eyes off Farder Corams daemon, who was the most beautiful daemon shed ever seen. When Pantalaimon was a cat, he was lean and ragged and harsh, but Sophonax, for that was her name, was golden-eyed and elegant beyond measure, fully twice as large as a real cat and richly furred.
Before he could finish his sentence, there was an urgent knock at the door, and a young gyptian man came in.
“Come over here,” he called. “You got to go and see John Faa at the Zaal. Run, gal, its urgent.”
“Lyra! Lyra!”
“Did they do that?”
“Thats right. So in the hourglass range of meanings you get death. In fact, after time, which is the first one, death is the second one.”
