Chapter 45 TWENTY-THREE - THE BRIDGE TO THE STARS-1

Once lorek Byrnison was out of sight, Lyra felt a great weakness coming over her, and she turned blindly and felt for Pantalaimon, “Oh, Pan, dear, I cant go on! Im so frightened—and so tired—all this way, and Im scared to death! I wish it was someone else instead of me, I do honestly!" Her daemon nuzzled at her neck in his cat form, warm and comforting. "I just dont know what we got to do," Lyra sobbed. "Its too much for us, Pan, we cant..." She clung to him blindly, rocking back and forth and letting the sobs cry out wildly over the bare snow. “And even if—if Mrs. Coulter got to Roger first, thered be no saving him, because shed take him back to Bolvangar, or worse, and theyd kill me out of vengeance....Why do they do these things to children , Pan? Do they all hate children so much, that they want to tear them apart like this? Why do they do it?"

But Pantalaimon had no answer; all he could do was hug her close. Little by little, as the storm of fear subsided, she came to a sense of herself again. She was Lyra, cold and frightened by all means, but herself. "I wish..." she said, and stopped. There was nothing that could be gained by wishing for it. A final deep shaky breath, and she was ready to go on. The moon had set by now, and the sky to the south was profoundly dark, though the billions of stars lay on it like diamonds on velvet. They were outshone, though, by the Aurora, outshone a hundred times. Never had Lyra seen it so brilliant and dramatic; with every twitch and shiver, new miracles of light danced across the sky. And behind the ever-changing gauge of light, that other world, that sunlit city, was clear and solid.

The higher they climbed, the more the bleak land spread out below them. To the north lay the frozen sea, compacted here and there into ridges where two sheets of ice had pressed together, but otherwise flat and white and endless, reaching to the Pole itself and far beyond, featureless, lifeless, colorless, and bleak beyond Lyras imagination. To the east and west were more mountains, great jagged peaks thrusting sharply upward, their scarps piled high with snow and raked by the wind into bladelike edges as sharp scimitars. To the south lay the way they had come, and Lyra looked most longingly back, to see if she could spy her dear friend lorek Byrnison and his troops; but nothing stirred on the wide plain. She was not even sure if she could See the burned wreckage of the zeppelin, or the crimson-stained snow around the corpses of the warriors.

Pantalaimon flew high, and swooped back to her wrist in his owl form. “Theyre just beyond the peak!” he said. “Lord Asriels laid out all his instruments, and Roger cant get away—” And as he said that, the Aurora nickeled and dimmed, like an anbaric bulb at the end of its life, and then went out altogether. In the gloom, though, Lyra sensed the presence of the Dust, for the air seemed to be full of dark intentions, like the forms of thoughts not yet born. In the enfolding dark she heard a cry: "Lyra! Lyra!" "I'm coming!" she cried back, and stumbled upward, clambering, sprawling, struggling, at the end of her strength; but hauling herself on and further on through the ghostly-gleaming snow.

"Lyra! Lyra!" "I'm nearly there," she gasped. "Nearly there, Roger!" Pantalaimon was changing rapidly, in his agitation: lion, ermine, eagle, wildcat, hare, salamander, owl, leopard, every form hed ever taken, a kaleidoscope of forms among the Dust— "Lyra!" Then she reached the summit, and saw what was happening. Fifty yards away in the starlight Lord Asriel was twisting together two wires that led to his upturned sledge, on which stood a row of batteries and jars and pieces of apparatus, already frosted with crystals of cold. He was dressed in heavy furs, his face Illuminated by the flame of a naphtha lamp. Crouching like the Sphinx beside him was his daemon, her beautiful spotted coat glossy with power, her tail moving lazily in the snow.

In her mouth she held Rogers daemon. The little creature was struggling, flapping, fighting, one moment a bird, the next a dog, then a cat, a rat, a bird again, and calling every moment to Roger himself, who was a few yards off, straining, trying to pull away against the heart-deep tug, and crying out with the pain and the cold. He was calling his daemons name, and calling Lyra; he ran to Lord Asriel and plucked his arm, and Lord Asriel brushed him aside. , crying and pleading, begging, sobbing, and Lord Asriel took no notice except to knock him to the ground. They were on the edge of a cliff. Beyond them was nothing but a huge illimitable dark. They were a thousand feet or more above the frozen sea.

All this Lyra saw by starlight alone; but then, as Lord Asriel connected his wires, the Aurora blazed all of a sudden into brilliant life. Like the long finger of blinding power that plays between two terminals, except that this was a thousand miles high and ten thousand miles long: dipping, soaring, undulating, glowing, a cataract of glory. He was controlling it... Or leading power down from it; for there was a wire running off a huge reel on the sledge, a wire that ran directly upward to the sky. Down from the dark swooped a raven, and Lyra knew it for a witch daemon. was helping Lord Asriel, and she had flown that wire into the heights.

And the Aurora was blazing again. He was nearly ready. He turned to Roger and beckoned, and Roger helplessly came, shaking his head, begging, crying, but helplessly going forward. "No! Run!" Lyra cried, and hurled herself down the slope at him. Pantalaimon leaped at the snow leopard and snatched Rogers daemon from her jaws. In a moment the snow leopard had leaped after him, and Pantalaimon let the other daemon go, and both young daemons, changing flick-flick-flick, turned and battled with the great spotted beast. She slashed left-right with needle-filled paws, and her snarling roar drowned even Lyras cries. Both children were fighting her, too; or fighting the forms in the turbid air, those dark intentions, that came thick and crowding down the streams of Dust—

And the Aurora swayed above, its continual surge flicker picking out now this building, now that lake, now that row of palm trees, so close you think that you could step from this world to that. Lyra leaped up and seized Rogers hand. She pulled hard, and then they tore away from Lord Asriel and ran, hand in hand, but Roger cried and twisted, because his daemon was caught again, held fast in the snow leopards jaws, and Lord Asriel himself was reaching down toward her with a wire; and Lyra knew the heart-convulsing pain of separation, and tried to stop— But they couldn't stop. The cliff was sliding away beneath them.

An entire shelf of snow, sliding inexorably down— The frozen sea, a thousand feet below— "LYRA!" Her heartbeats, leaping in anguish with Rogers— Tight-clutching hands— His body, suddenly limp in hers; and high above, the greatest wonder. At the moment he fell still, the vault of heaven, star-studded, profound, was pierced as if by a spear. A jet of light, a jet of pure energy released like an arrow from a great bow, shot upward from the spot where Lord Asriel had joined the wire to Rogers daemon. The sheets of light and color that were the Aurora tore apart; rendering, grinding, crunching, tearing sound reached from one end of the universe to the other; there was dry land in the sky—

Sunlight! Sunlight shining on the fur of a golden monkey.... For the fall of the snow shelf had halted; perhaps an unseen ledge had broken its fall; and Lyra could see, over the trampled snow of the summit, the golden monkey spring out of the air to the side of the leopard, and she saw the two daemons bristle, wary and powerful. The monkeys tail was erect, the snow leopards swept powerfully from side to side. Then the monkey reached out a tentative paw, the leopard lowered her head with a graceful sensual acknowledgment, they touched— And when Lyra looked up from them, Mrs. Coulter herself stood there, clasped in Lord Asriels arms. Light played around them like sparks and beams of intense anbaric power. Lyra, helpless, could only imagine what had happened: somehow Mrs. Coulter must have crossed that chasm, and followed her up here.... Her own parents, together! And embracing so passionately: an undreamed-of thing. Her eyes were wide. Rogers body lay in her arms, still, quiet, at rest. She heard her parents talking: Her mother said, “Theyll never allow it—” Her father said, “Allow it? Weve gone beyond being allowed, as if we were children. Ive made it possible for anyone to cross, if they wish.”