Chapter 33 SEVENTEEN - THE WITCHES-1

Lyra moaned and trembled uncontrollably, just as if she had been pulled out of water so cold that her heart had nearly frozen. Pantalaimon simply lay against her bare skin, inside her clothes, loving her back to herself, but aware all the time of Mrs. Coulter, busy preparing a drink of something, and most of all of the golden monkey, whose hard little fingers had run swiftly over Lyras body when only Pantalaimon could have noticed; and who had felt, around her waist, the oilskin pouch with its contents. “Sit up, dear, and drink this,” said Mrs. Coulter, and her gentle arm slipped around Lyras back and lifted her.

Lyra clenched herself, but relaxed almost at once as Pantalaimon thought to her: Were only safe as long as we pretend. She opened her eyes and found that they'd been containing tears, and to her surprise and shame she sobbed and sobbed. Mrs. Coulter made sympathetic sounds and put the drink into the monkeys hands while she mopped Lyras eyes with a scented handkerchief. “Cry as much as you need to, darling,” said that soft voice, and Lyra determined to stop as soon as she possibly could. She struggled to hold back the tears, she pressed her lips together, she choked down the sobs that still shook her chest.

Pantalaimon played the same game: fool them, fool them. He became a mouse and crept away from Lyras hand to sniff timidly at the drink in the monkeys clutch. It was innocuous: an infusion of chamomile, nothing more. shoulder and whispered, “Drink it.” She sat up and took the hot cup in both hands, alternately sipping and blowing to cool it. She kept her eyes down. She must pretend harder than shed ever done in her life. "Lyra, darling," Mrs. Coulter murmured, stroking her hair. "I thought wed lost you forever! What happened? Did you get lost? Did someone take you out of the flat?"

"Yeah," Lyra whispered. "Who was it, dear?" "A man and a woman." "Guests at the party?" “I think so. They said you needed something that was downstairs and I went to get it and they grabbed hold of me and took me in a car somewhere. But when they stopped, I ran out quick and dodged away and they never caught me . But I didnt know where I was...." Another sob shook her briefly, but they were weaker now, and she could pretend this one was caused by her story. “And I just wandered about trying to find my way back, only these Gobblers caught me....And they put me in a van with some other kids and took me somewhere, a big building, I dunno where it was.”

With every second that went past, with every sentence she spoke, she felt a little strength flowing back. And now that she was doing something difficult and familiar and never quite predictable, namely lying, she felt a sort of mastery again, the same sense of complexity and control that the alethiometer gave her. She had to be careful not to say anything obviously impossible; she had to be vague in some places and invent plausible details in others; she had to be an artist, in short. “How long did they keep you in this building?” said Mrs. Coulter. Lyras journey along the canals and her time with the gyp-tians had taken weeks:

shed have to account for that time. She invented a voyage with the Gobblers to Trollesund, and then an escape, lavish with details from her observation of the town; and a time as maid-of-all-work at Einarssons Bar, and then a spell working for a family of farmers inland, and then being caught by the Samoyeds and brought to Bolvangar. "And they were going to—going to cut—" “Hush, dear, hush. Im going to find out whats been going on.” "But why were they going to do that? I never done anything wrong! All the kids are afraid of what happens in there, and no one knows. But its horrible. Its worse than anything....Why are they doing that, Mrs. Coulter? Why are they so cruel?"

"There, there...Youre safe, my dear. They wont ever do it to you. Now I know youre here, and youre safe, youll never be in danger again. No ones going to harm you, Lyra darling; no ones ever going to hurt you..." "But they do it to other children! Why?" "Ah, my love—" "It's Dust, isn't it?" "Did they tell you that? Did the doctors say that?" "The kids know it. All the kids talk about it, but no one knows! And they nearly done it to me—you got to tell me! You got no right to keep it secret, not anymore!" "Lyra...Lyra, Lyra. Darling, these are big difficult ideas, Dust and so on. Its not something for children to worry about. But the doctors do it for the children own good, my love. Dust is something bad, something wrong, something evil and wicked.

Grownups and their daemons are infected with Dust so deeply that its too late for them. They cant be helped....But a quick operation on children means theyre safe from it. Dust just wont stick to them ever again. and—” Lyra thought of little Tony Makarios. She leaned forward suddenly and retched. Mrs. Coulter moved back and let go. "Are you all right, dear? Go to the bathroom—" Lyra swallowed hard and brushed her eyes. "You dont have to do that to us," she said. "You could just leave us. I bet Lord Asriel wouldn't let anyone do that if he knew what was going on. If hes got Dust and youve got Dust, and the Master of Jordan and every other grownups got Dust, it must be all right. When I get out Im going to tell all the kids in the world about this. Anyway, if it was so good, why you stop them doing it to me? it was good, you should have let them do it. You should have been glad.”

Mrs. Coulter was shaking her head and smiling a sad wise smile. “Darling,” she said, “some of whats good has to hurt us a little, and naturally its upsetting for others if you upset.... But it doesnt mean your daemon is taken away from you. Hes still there! Goodness me , a lot of the grownups here have had the operation. The nurses seem happy enough, dont they?" Lyra blinked. Suddenly she understood their strange blank incuriosity, the way their little trotting daemons seemed to be sleepwalking. Say nothing, she thought, and shut her mouth hard. “Darling, no one would ever dream of performing an operation on a child without testing it first. And no one in a thousand years would take a childs daemon away altogether! All that happens is a little cut, and then everythings peaceful. Forever! You see, your daemons a wonderful friend and com panion when you are young, but at the age we call puberty, the age you are coming to very soon, darling, daemons bring all sort of troublesome thoughts and feelings, and thats what lets Dust in. A quick little operation before that, and you're never troubled again. And your daemon stays with you, only...just not connected. Like a...like a wonderful pet, if you like. The best pet in the world! you like that?"

Oh, the wicked liar, oh, the shameless untruths she was telling! And even if Lyra hadnt known them to be lies (Tony Makarios; those caged daemons) she would have hated it with a furious passion. Her dear soul, the daring companion of her heart, to be cut away and reduced to a little trotting pet? Lyra nearly blazed with hatred, and Pantalaimon in her arms became a polecat, the most ugly and vicious of all his forms, and snarled. But they said nothing. Lyra held Pantalaimon tight and let Mrs. Coulter stroke her hair. “Drink up your chamomile,” said Mrs. Coulter softly. “Well have them make up a bed for you in here. Theres no need to go back and share a dormitory with other girls, not now Ive got my little assistant back. My favorite! The best assistant in the world. Dyou know, we searched all over London for you, darling? We had the police searching every town in the land. Oh, I missed you so much! I cant tell you how happy I am to find you again..."

All the time, the golden monkey was prowling about restlessly, one minute perching on the table swinging his tail, the next clinging to Mrs. Coulter and chittering softly in her ear, the next pacing the floor with tail erect. Coulters impatience, of course, and finally she couldn't hold it in. "Lyra, dear," she said, "I think that the Master of Jordan gave you something before you left. Isn't that right? He gave you an alethiometer. The trouble is, it wasn't his to give. It was left in his care . Its really too valuable to be carried about—dyou know, its one of only two or three in the world! I think the Master gave it to you in the hope that it would fall into Lord Asriels hands. He told you not to tell me about it, didn't he?" Lyra twisted her mouth. "Yes, I can see. Well, never mind, darling, because you didn't tell me, did you? So you havent broken any promises. But listen, dear, it really ought to be properly looked after. Im afraid its so rare and delicate that we cant let it be at risk any longer.” "Why shouldn't Lord Asriel have it?" Lyra said, not moving. “Because of what hes doing. You know hes been sent away to exile, because hes got something dangerous and wicked in mind. He needs the alethiometer to finish his plan, but believe me, dear, the last thing anyone should do is let him have it. The Master of Jordan was sadly mistaken. But now that you know, it really would be better to let me have it, wouldn't it? It would save you the trouble of carrying it around, and all the worry of looking after it —and really it must have been such a puzzle, wondering what a silly old thing like that was any good for...." Lyra wondered how she had ever, ever, ever found this woman to be so fascinating and clever. "So if you've got it now, dear, you'd really better let me have it to look after. Its in that belt around your waist, isn't it? Yes, that was a clever thing to do, putting it away like this... .” Her hands were at Lyras skirt, and then she was unfastening the stiff oilcloth. Lyra tensed herself. The golden monkey was crouching at the end of the bed, trembling with anticipation, little black hands to his mouth. Mrs. Coulter pulled the belt away from Lyras waist and unbuttoned the pouch. the black velvet cloth and unfolded it, finding the tin box lorek Byrnison had made. Pantalaimon was a cat again, tensed to spring. Lyra drew her legs up away from Mrs. Coulter, and swung them down to the floor so that she too could run when the time came. “Whats this?” said Mrs. Coulter, as if amused. “What a funny old tin! Did you put it in here to keep it safe, dear? All this moss...You have been careful, havent you? Another tin , inside the first one! And soldered! Who did this, dear?" She was too intent on opening it to wait for an answer. She had a knife in her handbag with a lot of different attachments, and she pulled out a blade and dug it under the lid. At once a furious buzzing filled the room. Lyra and Pantalaimon held themselves still. Mrs. Coulter, puzzled, curious, pulled at the lid, and the golden monkey bent close to look. Then in a dazzling moment the black form of the spy-fly hurt out of the tin and crashed hard into the monkeys face. He screamed and flung himself backward; and of course it was hurting Mrs. Coulter too, and she cried out in pain and fright with the monkey, and then the little clockwork devil swarmed upward at her, up her breast and throat toward her face. Lyra didnt hesitate. Pantalaimon sprang for the door and she was after him at once, and she tore it open and raced away faster than she had ever run in her life. "Fire alarm!" Pantalaimon shrieked, as he flew ahead of her. She saw a button on the next corner, and smashed the glass with her desperate fist. She ran on, heading toward the dormitories, smashed another alarm and another, and then people began to come out into the corridor, looking up and down for the fire. By this time she was near the kitchen, and Pantalaimon flashed a thought into her mind, and she darted in. A moment later she had turned on all the gas taps and flung a match at the nearest burner. Then she dragged a bag of flour from a shelf and hurled it at the edge of a table so it burst and filled the air with white, because she had heard that flour will explode if its treated like that near a flame. Then she ran out and on as fast as she could toward her own dormitory. The corridors were full now: children running this way and that, vivid with excitement, for the word escape had got around. The oldest were making for the storerooms where the Clothing was kept, and herding the younger ones with them. Adults were trying to control it all, and none of them knew what was happening. Shouting, pushing, crying, jostling people were everywhere. Through it all Lyra and Pantalaimon darted like fish, making always for the dormitory, and just as they reached it, there was a dull explosion from behind that shook the building. The other girls had fled: the room was empty. Lyra dragged the locker to the corner, jumped up, hauled the furs out of the ceiling, felt for the alethiometer. It was still there. She tugged the furs on quickly, pulling the hood forward, and then Pantalaimon, a sparrow at the door, called: "Now!" She ran out. By luck a group of children who already found some cold-weather clothing were racing down the corridor toward the main entrance, and she joined them, sweating, her heart thumping, knowing that she had to escape or die. The way was blocked. The fire in the kitchen had taken quickly, and whether it was the flour or the gas, something had brought down part of the roof. People were clambering over twisted struts and girders to get up to the bitter cold air. The smell of gas was strong. Then came another explosion, louder than the first and closer. The blast knocked several people over, and cries of fear and pain filled the air. Lyra struggled up, and with Pantalaimon calling, “This way! This way!” among the other daemon-cries and flutter-ings, she hauled herself over the rubble. The air she was breathing was frozen, and she hoped that the children had managed to find their outdoor clothing; it would be a fine thing to escape from the station only to die of cold. There really was a blaze now. When she got out onto the roof under the night sky, she could see flames licking at the edges of a great hole in the side of the building. There was a throng of children and adults by the main entrance , but this time the adults were more agitated and the children more fearful: much more fearful. "Roger! Roger!" Lyra called, and Pantalaimon, keen-eyed as an owl, shot that hed seen him. A moment later they found each other. "Tell em all to come with me!" Lyra shouted into his ear. "They won't—they're all panicky—" “Tell em what they do to the kids that vanish! They cut their demons off with a big knife! Tell em what you saw this afternoon—all them daemons we let out! Tell em thats going to happen to them too unless they get away !" Roger gaped, horrified, but then collected his wits and ran to the nearest group of hesitant children. Lyra did the same, and as the message passed along, some children cried out and clutched their daemons in fear. "Come with me!" Lyra shouted. "Theres a rescue a coming! We got to get out of the compound! Come on, run!" The children heard her and followed, streaming across the enclosure toward the avenue of lights, their boots patterning and creaking in the hard-packed snow. Behind them, adults were shouting, and there was a rumble and crash as another part of the building fell in. Sparks gushed into the air, and flames billowed out with a sound like tearing cloth; but cutting through this came another sound, dreadfully close and violent. Lyra had never heard it before, but she knew it at once: it was the howl of the Tartar guards wolf daemons. She felt weak from head to foot, and many children turned in fear and stumbled to a stop, for there running at a low swift tireless slope came the first of the Tartar guards, rifle at the ready, with the mighty leaping grayness of his daemon beside him. Then came another, and another. They were all in padded mail, and they had no eyes—or at least you couldn't see any eyes behind the snow slits of their helmets. The only eyes you could see were the round black ends of the rifle barrels and the blazing yellow eyes of the wolf daemons above the slaver dripping from their jaws. Lyra suffered. She hadn't dreamed of how frightening those wolves were. And now that she knew how casually people at Bolvangar broke the great taboo, she shrank from the thought of those dripping teeth.... The Tartars ran to stand in a line across the entrance to the avenue of lights, their daemons beside them as disciplined and drilled as they were. In another minute there was a second line, because more were coming, and more behind them. Lyra thought with despair: children cant fight soldiers. It wasn't like the battles in the Oxford claybeds, hurling lumps of mud at the brickburners children. Or perhaps it was! She remembered hurling a handful of clay in the broad face of a brickburner boy bearing down on her. Hed stopped to claw the stuff out of his eyes, and then the townies leaped on him. Shed been standing in the mud. She was standing in the snow. Just as shed done that afternoon, but in deadly earnest now, she scooped a handful together and hurled it at the nearest soldier. "Get em in the eyes!" she yelled, and threw another. Other children joined in, and then someones daemon had the notion of flying as a swift beside the snowball and nudging it directly at the eye slits of the target—and then they all joined in, and in a few moments the Tartars were stumbling about, spitting and cursing and trying to brush the packed snow out of the narrow gap in front of their eyes. "Come on!" Lyra screamed, and flung herself at the gate into the avenue of lights. The children streamed after her, every one, dodging the snapping jaws of the wolves and racing as hard as they could down the avenue toward the beckoning open dark beyond. A harsh scream came from behind as an officer shouted an order, and then a score of rifle bolts worked at once, and then there was another scream and a tense silence, with only the fleeing children pounding feet and gasping breath to be heard. They were taking aim. They wouldn't miss. But before they could fire, a choking gasp came from one of the Tartars, and a cry of surprise from another. Lyra stopped and turned to see a man lying on the snow, with a gray-feathered arrow in his back. He was writhing and twitching and coughing out blood, and the other soldiers were looking around to left and right for whoever had fired it, but the archer was nowhere to be seen. And then an arrow came flying straight down from the sky, and struck another man behind the head. He fell at once. A shout from the officer, and everyone looked up at the dark sky. "Witches!" said Pantalaimon. And so they were: ragged elegant black shapes sweeping past high above, with a hiss and swish of air through the needles of the cloud-pine branches they flew on. As Lyra watched, one swooped low and loosed an arrow: another man fell. And then all the Tartars turned their rifles up and blazed into the dark, firing at nothing, at shadows, at clouds, and more and more arrows rained down on them. But the officer in charge, seeing the children almost away, ordered a squad to race after them. Some children screamed. And then more screamed, and they were moving forward anymore, they were turning back in confusion, terrified by the monstrous shape hurtling toward them from the dark beyond the avenue of lights. "lorek Byrnison!" cried Lyra, her chest nearly bursting with joy. The armored bear at the charge seemed to be conscious of no weight except what gave him momentum. He bounded past Lyra almost in a blur and crashed into the Tartars, scattering soldiers, daemons, rifles to all sides. Then he stopped and whirled round, With a lithe athletic power, and struck two massive blows, one to each side, at the guards closest to him.