Lyra's Oxford: His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman

Author:Philip Pullman [Pullman, Philip]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780307487810
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2009-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

“It’s the alchemy.”

“Would we be less suspicious if he was an ordinary Scholar?”

“Yes. Alchemy’s nonsense.”

“But that’s a problem for the witch, not for us—”

Behind them the dæmon in the tree uttered a soft rattling sort of cry, followed by a quiet “Wheee-cha!” The kind of bird he was, the real bird, would make a cry like that. It sounded like a warning. Lyra and Pan understood: he meant move on, we must hurry, we can’t stand around. But it had the effect of arousing some pigeons roosting in the treetops. They awoke at once and flew down with a clatter of wings, furious, and chased away the dæmon, who darted out into the broad space of St. Giles’ and shot up high into the night sky. The pigeons gave chase, but not for long; they were less aggressive than the starlings, or else they were simply sleepier. With a lot of grumbling and fussing, they flapped back up to their nest and went to sleep.

“Where did he go?” said Lyra, scanning the sky above St. John’s College.

“There he is.…”

A darker speck than the sky was roving uncertainly back and forth, and then he found them and skimmed low to perch on a windowsill that was barred with an iron grille. Lyra moved toward it casually, and when they were close enough for Pan to do it without alarming the dæmon-bird, he sprang up to the grille beside him. Lyra loved the way he did that: one fluent movement, utterly silent, his balance perfect.

“Is it far now?” said the dæmon shakily.

“Not far,” said Pantalaimon. “But you haven’t told us the whole truth. What are you afraid of?”

The dæmon-bird tried to fly away, but found in the same instant that Pan had his tail firmly in the grasp of one strong paw. Wings flapping hard, the dæmon fell awkwardly against the grating, and cried out in the strange rattling cooing sound that had enraged the pigeons—and almost at once fell silent, in case they heard and attacked again. He struggled back up to the perch.

Lyra was standing as close as she could.

“If you don’t tell us the truth, we might lead you into trouble,” she said. “We can tell this is dangerous, whatever it is. Your witch ought to know that. If she was here, she’d make you tell us the truth, or tell it herself. What are you going to this man for?”

“I have to ask for something,” the dæmon said unhappily, with a wild quiver in his voice.

“What? And you have to tell us.”

“A medicine for my witch. This man can make an elixir …”

“How does she know that?”

“Dr. Lanselius has visited him. He knows. He could vouch for it.”

Dr. Lanselius was the consul of all the witch-clans at Trollesund, in the far north. Lyra remembered her visit to his house, and the secret she’d overheard—the secret which had had such momentous consequences. She would have trusted Dr. Lanselius; but could she trust what someone else claimed on his behalf?

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