When Malcolm went to the priory that afternoon to see if Mr. Taphouse was better, he found the workshop dark and locked up; but in the kitchen he had a surprise, because there was Alice, kneading some dough.
“Oh,” he said, because he could think of nothing else.
Alice looked disdainful, as usual, and said nothing.
“Hello, Malcolm,” said Sister Fenella. The old lady was sitting by the stove near Lyra’s crib, and she didn’t look at all well.
“Alice is helping us for a while,” the nun went on, her voice light and breathless.
“Oh, right,” he said. “How’s Lyra?”
“Fast asleep. Come and see.”
Lyra’s face was pressed into the fur of her kitten dæmon, but not for long, because as soon as Asta flew down to the crib, Pantalaimon woke up and spat fiercely. That woke Lyra, of course, and she started bellowing with all the breath in her little lungs.
“It’s all right, Lyra,” Malcolm said, “you know who we are. What a racket! I should think they can hear you all the way across the river and into the Trout.”
Asta became a young cat and jumped into the crib, taking care to avoid touching Lyra, and picked up Pan the kitten dæmon and gave him a little shake. He was so astonished that Lyra stopped crying at once to see what was happening, and that made Malcolm laugh, and that made Lyra laugh too, her eyes brilliant with tears.
Malcolm was delighted to have this effect. Alice had come over to look.
“Little flirt,” said Alice, and went back to her bread.
“Oh, no,” said Sister Fenella, “she knows Malcolm, doesn’t she, my sweet? We know Malcolm and Asta, don’t we?”
“Can I hold her?” said Malcolm.
“It’s nearly time for her feed—yes, go on. Can you take her out?”
“Easy,” said Malcolm, and while Asta playfully batted the kitten over and over, he reached in and picked the baby up. They were used to it now, and didn’t cry with alarm as they’d done at first. Malcolm pulled up a stool with his foot and sat Lyra on his knee next to Sister Fenella. The baby looked around at everything, and then her hand found her mouth and in went a thumb.
“She’s so hungry she’s eating herself,” Malcolm said.
Sister Fenella was stirring a saucepan of milk on the range and testing the heat with her little finger.
“There, that’s just right,” she said. “Malcolm, dear, can you fill the bottle for me?”
Malcolm passed Lyra to her and poured the milk very carefully into the clean bottle. He wanted to tell Alice what had happened earlier that afternoon with Mrs. Coulter, but not while Sister Fenella was there; and in any case the girl was so haughty and cold he didn’t find it easy to say anything to her at all.
When the bottle was ready, Sister Fenella took Lyra in the crook of her arm and settled back to feed her. Malcolm was troubled; the old lady was as sweet and kindly as she always was, but her face was gray and her eyes were red-rimmed and tired.
“I came to see if Mr. Taphouse was better,” he said, sitting on the stool again.
“We haven’t seen him for a few days. I hope he’s all right. I’m sure Mrs. Taphouse would let us know if he was poorly.”
“Perhaps he’s having a holiday. He got all those shutters done, though, didn’t he?”
“Oh, he’s a marvelous workman.”
“If you need anything else done, I’ll do it.”
Alice gave a short laugh. Malcolm decided to ignore her.
For a while the only sounds in the kitchen were the rhythmical slapping of Alice’s hands on the dough, the subdued crackle of the fire in the range, the contented sucking of Lyra’s lips on the rubber teat, and another sound that Malcolm couldn’t identify till he realized that it was the faint straining of Sister Fenella’s breath. The old lady’s eyes were closed, and a little frown of effort drew her brows together.
Then, as Malcolm watched, the bottle slipped out of her hand, very slowly, and the arm holding Lyra fell outward, even more slowly, so he had time to call, “Alice!” and seize the baby before she fell into the hearth.
Lyra howled in protest, but Malcolm had her safe, and caught the bottle too. Alice in a moment caught Sister Fenella by the shoulders and pulled her gently upright, but the old lady was unconscious. Her squirrel dæmon had fainted on her breast.
“What should we—” said Alice.
“You hold her so she doesn’t fall, and I’ll go and get—”
“Yeah, yeah—go on—”
Malcolm stood up with Lyra. This was interesting enough to stop the child yelling, but Malcolm clamped the bottle into her mouth anyway, and with Asta, cat-formed, on the floor holding the kitten Pan in her mouth and following closely, he set off down the corridor towards Sister Benedicta’s office.
Which was empty, of course. He looked around as if she might be hiding, then shook his head.
“She’s not here, Lyra,” he said. “Never there when we need her, is she?”
He went out and saw a slender figure further down the corridor.
“Sister Katarina?” he called.
The young nun turned. She seemed more startled than Malcolm expected.
“What? What is it?”
“Sister Fenella’s fainted and we need some help—she was feeding Lyra and—”
“Oh! Oh, goodness! What—”
“Call Sister Benedicta, and then come and help in the kitchen.”
“Yes! Yes! Of course!”
She turned and hurried away, calling for Sister Benedicta.
“That was Sister Katarina, Lyra,” said Malcolm. “She’s going to find Sister Benedicta. You just carry on guzzling, girl. Don’t you worry about it. We’re going back to the kitchen now. Blooming cold out here, en’t it?”
Alice had pulled Sister Fenella back into her armchair, but the old nun hadn’t woken, and her breathing was loud and difficult.
“Pneumonia,” said Alice, still holding her upright. “That’s what my gran was like when she got it.”
“Did she die?”
“Well, she did in the end, but not of that. Blimey, she needs changing.”
She was looking at Lyra, who was determined to drain the bottle.
“Well, I can’t do that,” said Malcolm.
“Typical.”
“Only because I never been shown how.”
“ ‘If you need anything else done, I’ll do it,’ ” she mimicked.
“They wouldn’t send for a carpenter to do that,” Malcolm pointed out. “Is there any more milk in the saucepan?”
“Yeah, a bit. Hold her up—here, give her to me—I’ll do it. You put the milk in.”
“Can you do baby things?”
“I got two little sisters. Course I can.”
She did seem to take Lyra in a steady and competent way, and when she patted the child’s back, a gigantic burp emerged, which startled her little dæmon into becoming a turkey chick. Malcolm put the saucepan back on the range to heat for a moment.
“Not too hot,” said Alice.
“No, no. I saw what she did.”
Malcolm’s little finger was not very clean, so he sucked it hard first and then held it in the saucepan till the milk was warm enough, and tipped it all into the bottle. Then he hauled Sister Fenella back upright and was putting a cushion behind her head just as Sister Benedicta and Sister Katarina came in.
“See to the baby,” Sister Benedicta said, and Sister Katarina tried to take Lyra, but Alice resisted.
“She’s settled with me now,” she said. “I’ll keep her till she’s finished.”
“Oh—if you’re sure—”
Alice looked at her. Malcolm knew that look and was interested to see its effect on someone else. Sister Katarina looked away nervously, and then even pushed the stool a little forward for Alice to sit on. The nun’s pug dæmon hid behind her legs.
Sister Benedicta was attending to Sister Fenella. She passed some smelling salts under the old lady’s nose, making her flinch and moan, but she didn’t wake up.
“Shall I go and get the doctor?” Malcolm said.
“Thank you, Malcolm, but we won’t need him tonight,” said Sister Benedicta. “Poor Sister Fenella needs rest more than anything else. We’ll take her to her bed. Well done, both of you. Alice, give Lyra to Sister Katarina now. You’d better get back to your bread dough. Malcolm, that’s all for tonight, thank you. Off you go home.”
“If you need anything—”
“Yes, I’ll ask you at once. Good night.”
She was worried about Sister Fenella, and so was he. But there was no need to worry about Lyra, he thought.
The next day being Sunday, Malcolm had time in the morning to stock the canoe with emergency supplies—just in case, as Asta kept saying. Most important of all was his little toolbox, but he also had an old biscuit tin from the kitchen with other bits and pieces in it. He thought of including some first-aid materials but decided against them on the grounds that he didn’t have any, though it would be good to get hold of some one day.
When he’d finished, Alice had arrived for her lunchtime hours in the kitchen. As soon as Malcolm was alone with her, she said, “You seen Sister Fenella this morning?”
“No. But if they needed the doctor, I’d have been sent.”
They said nothing while Mrs. Polstead was there, as if they’d agreed to keep a secret, though there was no need to. Malcolm had told his parents what had happened, and they’d been surprised, as Malcolm had been, that Alice was working in the priory kitchen.
“If she can make bread, I might give her some more hours,” said his mother.
“She’s a dark horse,” said his father.
When his mother went out again, Malcolm and Alice both began speaking at once.
“You know what you said about—” said Malcolm, and “That other nun—” said Alice, and then, “All right, you first.”
“You know what you said about Gerard Bonneville saying he was Lyra’s father?”
“You en’t said that to anyone?”
“Just listen,” said Malcolm, and he told Alice about his visit to Dr. Relf, and finding Mrs. Coulter there, and what he said to her.
“You didn’t say that he said he was—”
“No, course not. Just that he said he knew her. That was enough. She was dead shocked. So I’m sure she knew who he was, all right.”
“What was she doing there anyway?”
“She asked Dr. Relf where Lyra was.”
“Did she tell her?”
“Dr. Relf? No! She never would.” He was going to add, “She’s a spy,” but held back. He mustn’t say anything about that, but it was becoming easier to talk to Alice all the time, so he’d have to be very careful. He went on: “She said she didn’t know herself—Dr. Relf, I mean. She was surprised. Mrs. Coulter prob’ly came to see her about the alethiometer.”
“What’s that?”
He began to explain, and then his mother came back, and it would have looked awkward to stop talking, so he finished his account of the alethiometer and what it did. His mother stopped to listen.
“Is that what you get up to in Jericho?” she said.
“No. It’s what she gets up to in the Bodleian Library.”
“Stone the crows. Listen, Alice, how would you like some hours in the kitchen here? Not washing up. I mean, preparing food.”
“I dunno,” said Alice. “Maybe.”
“Well, when you’ve consulted your social diary, let me know.”
“I’m working in the priory kitchen now. They might need me more if Sister Fenella’s ill.”
“See what you can fit in. There’s work here, if you’d like it.”
“All right,” said Alice, not looking anywhere except into the sink, which was full of hot dishwater.
Malcolm’s mother blew out her cheeks and rolled her eyes and then went out to the storeroom.
“You said about Sister Katarina,” said Malcolm.
“Yeah. She was the one that left that shutter open. She done it for him.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, course, really. Don’t you believe me?”
“Yeah, I believe you. But how does she know him?”
“I’ll show you,” said Alice, and then said no more.
But before Malcolm left, Alice’s dæmon, Ben, spoke to Asta, both being cats at the time. That had never happened before, and Malcolm was amazed, but simply waited till the two dæmons had finished their brief conversation and went out.
“What did he say?” he whispered to Asta as they went through to the bar.
“He said we should go to the priory kitchen about eight o’clock. That’s all. He didn’t say why.”
Eight o’clock was the hour of Compline, as Malcolm knew. All the sisters would be in the oratory for the final service of the day, except for Sister Fenella, he supposed, and Sister Katarina, if she was looking after Lyra.
And the rain had set in with a fury. It fell not in drops but in sheets, and the ground was running with it, so that you couldn’t see anything solid: just flowing fields of bitter cold water. With the excuse of homework, Malcolm had gone upstairs by half past seven, and then tiptoed down again, not that anyone would have heard him above the thunderous drumming on the roof and the doors and the windows.
In the storeroom he put on his high boots and his oilskin raincoat and sou’wester, and then he went to the lean-to and put up the coal-silk tarpaulin on La Belle Sauvage. Just in case, he thought.
Then, leaning against the wind, with Asta tucked tight into his breast, he fought his way onto the bridge and looked down at the racing water. He remembered what Coram van Texel had said: there were things in the water that had been disturbed, and things in the sky too….He sheltered his eyes with his hand and peered upwards. Almost at once a flash of lightning dazzled him, like an inscription on the heavens of his own private aurora, and such a crash of thunder hammered his ears that he felt dizzy and nearly fell, and he clutched the stone parapet in alarm.
Asta said, “His chariots of wrath the deep thunderclouds form—”
Malcolm finished the verse: “And dark is His path on the wings of the storm.”
It was so exposed where he stood that he felt genuinely afraid, and he hastened to the other side and into the shelter of the priory walls. The sound of singing came very faintly from the oratory.
He tapped on the kitchen window with a stone to make it easier to hear, and a moment later Alice opened the door and came out. The rain dashed against her and flattened her hair lankly over her cheeks.
“You know the potting sheds?” she said quietly.
“The priory ones?”
“Course, idiot. There’s one at the left-hand end. There’s a light in it. You can get into the one next door and look through. Go and see.”
They had to lean close together to speak, and her breath was warm against his face.
“But what—”
“Just go. I can’t stay out here. I’m looking after Lyra.”
“But where’s Sister Kat—”
She shook her head. Ben and Asta were whispering urgently together. When Alice turned to open the door, Ben leapt into her arms, ferret-formed. Malcolm felt Asta leap up to his shoulder, and then the door was shut again and they were alone.
“What did he say?” he asked for the second time that day.
“He said we’ve got to be careful and not make a noise. Any noise at all.”
Malcolm nodded, and Asta slipped inside his oilskin raincoat and twisted around to look out from under his chin. They set off around the wall of the priory, away from the bridge, towards the garden where Lord Asriel had walked up and down with his daughter in the moonlight. Malcolm had to peer closely at the ground, so thickly was the rain falling, and he felt against his boots a current of water running strongly away from the river. Was it overflowing its banks? He couldn’t see, but it must be.
They came to the kitchen garden, and Asta said, “That shed—the last one—there’s a light there, like she said.”
Sure enough, if he wiped his eyes and sheltered them with his hand for a few seconds, he could make out a dimly flickering light behind the window. It was on the side facing away from the priory.
He knew how the sheds were laid out because he’d helped Sister Martha many times in the garden. The last two were one shed, really, with a thin dividing wall. The doors were each on a simple iron latch. Sister Martha kept them unlocked on purpose: she had no tools worth stealing, she said, and it was too much trouble to fiddle with a key all the time.
Taking the greatest care with the latch, Malcolm opened the door to the shed next to the lighted one. Asta had already become an owl to see better, because Sister Martha used this side to store flowerpots, and if Malcolm knocked a pile of them over, it would make a noise that even the rain wouldn’t be able to cover.
He tiptoed through the darkness, which was actually not quite dark: the single layer of planks between this shed and the other had warped in places, letting through the faint yellow glow of a candle that wavered in the strong draft. The thin roof resonated under the rain: it was like being inside a great drum, which might give way any moment under the crazy assault of the drummer.
Malcolm delicately stepped over the flowerpots and put his hands on the planks of the wall. Listening hard, he thought he could hear a voice—two voices—and then, abruptly stifled, that hideous high cackling laugh. Bonneville was there, only feet away. Asta became a moth, and as she settled near another crack in the wall, Malcolm felt a shock as she saw something. He leaned closer and peered through the crack to see Gerard Bonneville and Sister Katarina in a clumsy embrace. She was leaning back against a pile of empty sacks—her bare legs gleamed in the candlelight. The hyena was licking her pug dæmon, who was on his back, squirming with pleasure—
Malcolm carefully took a step back. His mind was calm enough for that, but only just. He moved away from the wall and sat down on an upturned crate at the other end of the shed.
“You saw?” whispered Asta.
“She’s supposed to be looking after—”
“That’s why he’s with her! He wants her to give him Lyra!”
Malcolm felt the inside of his head whirling like leaves in a wind. He couldn’t think firmly or clearly about anything.
“What are we going to do?” said Asta.
“If we told Sister Benedicta, she wouldn’t believe us. She’d ask Sister Katarina, who’d say it never happened, we were making it up—”
“She knows Sister Katarina left the shutter open.”
“And she knows Bonneville’s around. But she’d never believe this. And there en’t any proof.”
“Not yet,” said Asta.
“What d’you mean?”
“We know how people make babies, don’t we?”
“Oh. Oh! So—”
“So that’s what they’re doing, and if she gets pregnant, that’d be proof enough, even for Sister Benedicta.”
“But not that it was him,” said Malcolm.
“Well, no.”
“And he might have gone by then.”
“With Lyra.”
“You think she’s what he wants?”
“Course. Don’t you?”
The idea was horrible.
“Yes, I do,” Malcolm said. “You’re right. He wants Lyra. I just don’t understand why.”
“Doesn’t matter why. Revenge. He might want to kill her, or hold her hostage. To ransom her.”
The nun uttered a long, high moan of some emotion Malcolm didn’t understand. It sounded through the wall, above the rain, above the wind. He thought of her cry flying through the night sky and making the moon turn her face away, making the owls tremble in their flight.
He discovered that he was clenching his fists.
“Well, we’ll have to…,” he said.
“Yeah, we’ll have to,” she said. “Have to something.”
“Suppose we do nothing, and he gets hold of Lyra?”
A low rich male laugh came next, not like the hyena’s at all, nor like a laugh at something funny either, but like a little gush of satisfaction.
“That’s him!” said Asta.
Malcolm said, “If we tell Sister Benedicta, she’ll prob’ly think they both done wrong, but she could only punish Sister Katarina. She can’t punish him.”
“If she believes us. She might not.”
“Is this a crime, what they’re doing?”
“If she didn’t want to, it’d be a crime, I reckon.”
“I think she does, though.”
“Yeah, so do I. So there’s nothing the police could do to him, even if they believed us, even if they could catch him, even if even if.”
“But even punishing him’s not so important as making sure Lyra’s safe. That’s the most important thing.”
“I suppose so….”
From the direction of the priory building there came a deep rumbling crash—deeper than the thunder, and it lasted longer. It was not like a noise at all to begin with but a movement of the earth, and even the flowerpots clinked and clattered, and some fell over, and still the rumbling went on and the ground went on trembling.
Sister Katarina cried out, “No! No! Let go—please—I must go—”
Bonneville’s deep voice murmured something.
“Yes—I promise—but I must—”
Suddenly Malcolm leapt up, thinking, Lyra!
He shot out the door, crashing it back against the wooden wall, and raced for the priory, ignoring the sheets of water that fell, the water rushing over the path, the man’s shout behind, and the crazed “Haaa! Ha! Haaa!” from the hyena dæmon.
Asta raced, greyhound-formed, beside him. As they reached the priory building and rounded the corner, Malcolm realized that the water they were running through was deeper and faster, and that the gatehouse light had gone out—
—because the gatehouse was no longer there. A heap of stones, planks, rubble, boards, and roof tiles lay there instead, illuminated flickeringly from inside the building. As Malcolm stood in shock, a wave broke over the top of the rubble: the river had burst its banks. When the surge reached him, it was as high as his knees and nearly knocked him over.
“Alice!” Malcolm yelled.
From behind him came a wail of terror in the voice of Sister Katarina.
“The kitchen!” cried Asta, and Malcolm struggled to the kitchen door. The water was surging at the foot of it, and when he shoved it open, he found the kitchen already flooded—the fire in the range hissing and steaming, the floor awash.
And there was Lyra’s crib actually afloat—actually rocking on the water—and Alice lying dazed across the kitchen table, half under a pile of plaster and beams from the ceiling—
“Alice!” he cried, and she stirred, moaning, but then sat up too quickly and sagged sideways again.
Malcolm snatched Lyra from the crib, Asta darting down to take care of Pan. Malcolm pulled the blankets out after the child and wrapped them around her. All he could see by was the orange glow from the range. Had he got all the blankets? Would she be warm enough?
Alice was groping for the wall and trying to stand up. Suddenly she was hurled aside as the man Bonneville burst in—smashing the door open even against the water at its foot—and, seeing Malcolm, leapt towards him, snarling so vilely that he sounded worse than the dæmon who followed him close—
Malcolm held Lyra tight against his chest—she was crying in fear—
And then Bonneville fell forward with a great splash as Alice smashed his head from behind with a chair. He grabbed at the table but couldn’t hold it—all he did was tip it over and fall with a heavy splash beside it. She raised the chair again and brought it down on him again.
“Quick! Quick!” Alice cried, and Malcolm tried to run through the water, but could only manage a horrible slowness as Bonneville’s hands and arms and then his blood-streaming head emerged above the table, and then the man slipped and fell back and emerged again, the side of his head a mask of flaring blood.
“Malcolm!” Alice screamed.
He leapt for the door, clasping Lyra tight. The baby was yelling in fury and kicking and waving her little fists.
“Give me that—” the man roared, and then slipped down again, and Malcolm was out the door and running with Alice towards the bridge, but the water slowed them so much it was worse than a bad dream.
No sign of Sister Katarina, no sign of the other nuns—they couldn’t all be drowned? Or crushed under fallen timbers? The only other living being was the blood-soaked Bonneville and his limping, lurching dæmon coming out of the kitchen door behind them—
But there was hardly any light to see by, and the air was full of driving, smashing water. By instinct and memory Malcolm stumbled along the path, calling, “Alice! Alice!”
Then he bumped into her and they both nearly fell over.
“Hold on! Don’t let go!” he shouted.
Linked by their cold hands, they forced their way through the flood and up onto the bridge. One light from the Trout was still glowing and showed that the parapet and one side of the roadway were gone.
“Careful!” she cried.
“Don’t let go!”
They shuffled sideways along the remaining part of the roadway and felt it shake and rumble under their feet. Lyra had stopped crying and found her thumb, and she lay in Malcolm’s tight grasp quite happily, interested in everything.
“It’s going to go—the bridge!” Alice cried, and then, “He’s there! Quick!” as she looked back past Malcolm.
“How could he—”
“Come on!”
They stumbled down the steps that led to the terrace of the Trout and found they had to go back—the river was racing over the terrace at the height of a tabletop: it would sweep them off their feet and away in a moment.
“Where? Which way?” shouted Alice.
“Round the other side—maybe the door—”
Malcolm didn’t know what he was going to say, because close behind came that terrifying laugh—“Haa! Ha! Haaa!”—and there, full in the gleam of the light hanging over the inn door, was Bonneville’s face, astream with water and astream with blood. Alice picked up a loose stone from the parapet, as big as her fist, and hurled it straight at him, and again he fell.
“Quick! Quick!” cried Malcolm, and led them running down the slope towards the other side of the inn, towards the front door, towards safety.
And the door was locked.
Oh, of course, he thought, they think I’m upstairs….
“Mum! Dad!” he yelled, but the wind and the rain and the torrents of the river tore his voice away like a scrap of tissue paper.
Clutching Lyra close with one arm, holding Alice’s hand with the other hand, he scrambled along the wall of the pub to the back door. Locked as well.
He shoved Lyra at Alice and picked up a big stone to hammer on the door with. But the roar of the water and the lashing of the trees in the wind were too loud: he could hardly hear the hammering himself. He hit the door time and again, until he couldn’t hold the stone anymore. There was no response, and Bonneville was somewhere close, and they couldn’t stand and wait for him to find them.
“Come on,” he said, and Alice followed as he splashed around to the garden, to the storeroom, to the lean-to, where he kept the canoe. In the faint light coming through the rain from the landing window, they saw a peacock drowned and draped over a bush.
In the lean-to, La Belle Sauvage sat snugly under her coal-silk canopy.
“Get in. Sit down there and take Lyra. Don’t move,” he said, and pulled back enough of the canopy for Alice to see the bow, and where to step and where to sit. He shoved Lyra at her, and she took her with firm arms, and then he pulled the canopy back over her and got in himself. There was so much water streaming over the grass that he was pretty sure this would work, and indeed La Belle Sauvage was straining at her mooring rope already, as if she sensed what Malcolm wanted.
A quick tug—the knot came loose—and Malcolm took the paddle and used it to keep her upright as she began to move, slowly at first and then faster and faster, down the grass slope towards the river.
But the river was coming up to meet them, and suddenly the little boat came free from the grass and surged forward.
They could only go one way. La Belle Sauvage sped like a dart over the mad river, down towards Port Meadow, towards the wild waste of water that was sweeping through Oxford, towards whatever lay beyond.