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La Belle Sauvage, Page 29

Philip Pullman


  "If that was Tom Simms," said Audrey, "I'd say he was probably drunk and his mermaid was a porpoise."

  "She weren't a porpoise. He spoke to her, didn't he? And she spoke back. She had a voice sweeter than a chime of bells, he said. Ten to one he's living with her now, out in the German Ocean."

  "He'll be bloody cold if he is," said Audrey. "Here, give me that chicken. I'll finish it off."

  Malcolm had made a reasonable job of it, he thought, but he was glad to let her take over. His hands were numb with cold and he couldn't grip the smaller feathers.

  "Get yourself some bread from the bin over there," Audrey told him. "There's cheese in the bin next to it."

  The bins were galvanized steel dustbins. In the first one, there were three and a half heavy loaves, hard and stale, and a knife to cut them with. Malcolm cut a thick slice for himself and another for Alice, and carved some cheese to go with them as the woman Doris Whicher woke up nearby and looked around blearily.

  "Andrew?" she said. "Where's Andrew?"

  "I haven't seen him this morning," Malcolm said.

  She rolled over and sat up in a thick smell of alcohol. "Where's he gone?"

  "I saw him last night."

  "Who are you, then?"

  "Malcolm Polstead," he told her. There was no point in giving himself a false name, since Mr. Boatwright knew exactly who he was.

  Doris Whicher groaned and lay down again, and Malcolm took the bread and cheese over to Alice. Audrey Boatwright was holding Lyra up and patting her back, and Lyra obliged with a fine expression of wind. Malcolm sat down to gnaw at the bread and cheese and found it hard going, but his stomach was glad of the effort his teeth were making.

  And then, once he was able to sit and relax, the realization came back: he had killed Bonneville. He and Alice, they were murderers. The dreadful word was stamped on his mind as if by a printing press on a sheet of paper, and the ink was red. Asta became a moth and flew from his shoulder to Alice's daemon, and Ben tilted his head as Asta whispered to him. Mrs. Boatwright was walking up and down, showing Lyra to the people who were just waking, and someone else was attending to the chicken, gutting it and jointing it and sprinkling it with flour. If that was going to feed everyone in the cave, Malcolm thought, trying to distract himself, there wouldn't be much on anyone's plate.

  But Alice had moved closer, and she was leaning in to whisper something.

  "Mr. Boatwright...D'you trust him?"

  "I...think so. Yes."

  " 'Cause we didn't ought to stay here much longer."

  "I think so too. And there's a boy..."

  He told her about Andrew. She frowned.

  "And he en't here now?"

  "No. I'm a bit worried."

  At that moment, Andrew's aunt stumbled up to the fire and sat down heavily. Alice glared at her. Doris Whicher didn't notice; she was in the throes of a hangover, and the smell of liquor was so strong that Malcolm thought she ought to breathe more carefully near the fire. Her crow daemon kept falling down and scrabbling up again.

  Then she looked at Malcolm and said, "Who was asking me about Andrew? Was it you?"

  "Yes. I didn't know where he was."

  "Why d'you want to know?"

  " 'Cause we were talking last night and he said something interesting and I was going to ask him about it."

  "Is it that bloody league?"

  Every nerve in Malcolm's body sprang awake.

  "The League of St. Alexander? Is he a member?"

  "Yeah, little bastard. If I says to him once--"

  Malcolm got up at once, and Alice, seeing his urgency, followed.

  "We got to go," he said. "Right now."

  Alice ran to Audrey Boatwright, who was talking to another woman near the cave entrance, jogging Lyra comfortably on her bosom. Malcolm looked around and saw George Boatwright bending some sticks together to make a trap.

  "Mr. Boatwright--sorry to disturb you--but we've got to go right away. Can you show us the path down--"

  "Don't worry about that CCD boat," said Boatwright confidently. "Chances are, they--"

  "No, it's not them. We got to get Lyra away before--"

  But there were loud voices behind him. He turned swiftly to see Alice trying to get between Mrs. Boatwright and a man in a dark uniform, and three other men behind him spread out to prevent anyone leaving the cave. And lurking behind them, half ashamed, half proud, was Andrew.

  Malcolm ran to help Alice, who was trying to pull Lyra from Audrey Boatwright's arms. But then one of the men grabbed Alice by the neck, and he was shouting, and Malcolm was shouting too, and he didn't know what he was saying. Audrey was trying to shelter Lyra, turning away, trying to move back into the cave, and Mr. Boatwright was trying to help her, and Lyra was screaming in fear. At one moment, Malcolm reached Mrs. Boatwright and had his hands on Lyra and began to lift her away, and the next moment came a shocking blow on his head and he fell sprawling half conscious to the ground; and Alice was biting the arms that held her, and lashing out with both feet, and screaming.

  Malcolm dragged himself to his knees, dizzy and weak and almost totally confused. Through the tumult of voices, one voice cried out to him with perfect clarity, that of Lyra, and he called back, "Lyra! Lyra! I'm coming!"

  But a heavy weight crashed into him and knocked him flat again. It was Audrey Boatwright, who had lost hold of Lyra and been knocked off her feet by one of the men. Malcolm struggled to get out from under her body, but it was so hard, because she was struggling too, and then he found himself on his knees again, and Alice was lying still on the ground, and so was George Boatwright. Someone was wailing and crying, but it wasn't Lyra; someone else a long way off was shouting, a woman's voice, incoherent with rage and helplessness. Audrey Boatwright began to sob as she found her husband unconscious beside her.

  But the dark-uniformed men were gone, and Lyra was gone with them.

  Malcolm tried to step forward, but the cave was revolving in his vision. He missed his footing, found it again, and then fell over completely and nearly vomited. Asta was whispering hoarsely, "It's the blow on the head--you can't stand up yet--lie down and keep still." But he was possessed by a frenzy of fear and rage, and he struggled to get to his feet.

  There was Andrew, smiling nervously, but with a righteous smugness in his expression too. He put up his hands in defense. Malcolm knocked them aside and hit him hard in the face, so that he fell over, crying, "Auntie! Auntie!"

  "What you done?" said his aunt, but Malcolm didn't know whether she was speaking to him or to Andrew. Perhaps she didn't know either.

  Malcolm kicked the boy, and he rolled away, curled up like a wood louse.

  "Who were those men?" Malcolm shouted. "Where were they going?"

  "None of your-- Argh!" cried Andrew as Malcolm kicked him again.

  Finally Doris Whicher realized what was happening and hauled Malcolm away.

  "Who were they?" Malcolm roared, struggling against the fat arms and the reek of alcohol. "Where are they taking Lyra?"

  Andrew had rolled out of reach and tried to stand up, making the most of the blows Malcolm had landed, wincing, limping, touching his face with delicate fingers.

  "I think you broke my jaw--"

  Malcolm stamped on Doris's foot, and then Alice was there too, slapping and scratching at the boy, then turning to haul at his aunt's shaking arms as they tried to hold on to Malcolm, who tore himself free and rushed to corner Andrew against the rocky wall of the cave. The boy's mouse daemon was squealing and screaming as she cowered behind his feet.

  "No! Don't hit me!"

  "Just tell me who they were."

  "CCD!"

  "Liar. It was the wrong uniform. Who were they?"

  "I don't know! I thought they were CCD--"

  "Where did you go to find them?"

  By this time the other adults had come round to watch and encourage one side or the other. Some of them had not been awake when the men came and needed to have it explained, and Georg
e Boatwright was still unconscious, and Audrey was anxiously crying his name as she knelt beside him, so the cave was full of hubbub.

  Andrew was sobbing. Malcolm turned away in disgust and sank to his knees, but Asta, cat-shaped, leapt at Andrew's mouse daemon and bore her to the ground. And there was Ben, hair bristling, growling at the boy with a bulldog ferocity.

  But Alice was tugging at Malcolm's arm and making him stand up, so he turned away from the daemons for a moment.

  "Listen," she said, "listen to this man."

  The man was small and wiry and dark-haired, and his daemon was a vixen.

  "I seen them uniforms before," he said. "They en't CCD. They're called summing like the Security of the Holy Spirit, summing like that. They guard religious places--seminaries, nunneries, schools, that sort of place. They prob'ly come from Wallingford, from the priory there."

  "A priory?" said Malcolm. "With monks or nuns?"

  "Nuns," said someone else, a woman whom Malcolm couldn't see. "The Sisters of Holy Obedience."

  "How d'you know?" said the man.

  "I used to work for 'em," she said, coming out of the shadows and into the gray light near the entrance of the cave. "For the sisters. I used to clean and look after the chickens and the goats."

  "Where are they? Where is this place?" said Malcolm.

  "Down Wallingford," she said. "You wouldn't miss it. Big white stone buildings."

  "And who are these sisters? What do they do?" said Alice, her face pale, her eyes blazing.

  "They pray. They teach. They look after kids. I dunno...they're fierce."

  "Fierce? How?" said Malcolm.

  "Stern. Very stern and cruel. I couldn't bear it, so I left," the woman said.

  "I seen them guards catching a kid what run away," said the man. "They beat him right there in the street till he fainted. No use trying to interfere--they got all the power they need."

  "Is that what you did, then?" said Malcolm, turning to Andrew. "You went and told them about us and the baby?"

  Andrew whimpered and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  "Tell 'em, boy," said his aunt. "Stop sniveling."

  "I don't want him to hit me again," said Andrew.

  "I won't hit you. Just tell us what you did."

  "I'm in the league. I had to do what's right."

  "Never mind the league. What did you do?"

  "I knew you never oughter been looking after a kid that en't yours. You prob'ly stole her or summing. So I told the Office of Child Protection. They came in our school and explained why it was right to tell 'em things like that. I don't know nothing about this Security of the Holy Spirit; I never heard of them. It was the Office of Child Protection."

  "Where are they?"

  "In the priory."

  "Isn't the priory flooded like everywhere else?"

  "No, 'cause it's on a hill."

  "Who's in charge there?"

  "The Mother Superior."

  "So you went and told her, did you?"

  "The Child Protection people took me to see her. It was the right thing to do," he said quaveringly, beginning to wail.

  His aunt hit him, and he choked back his wail with a sniveling cough.

  "What did she say, the Mother Superior?" Malcolm demanded.

  "She wanted to know who the kid was and where we were and all that. I told her everything I knew. I had to."

  "And then what?"

  "We said a prayer and then she give me a bed to sleep on for a bit, and then I guided 'em back here."

  In the face of the hostility and contempt of almost everyone in the cave, Andrew crumpled and fell to the floor, curled up and sobbing. Almost everyone, because George Boatwright was still unconscious, and Audrey was now increasingly frightened. She knelt beside him, rubbing his hand, stroking his head, calling his name, and looking around to everyone there for help.

  Alice saw her and knelt to see if she could do anything, while Malcolm continued to question Andrew.

  "Where is this priory? How far away?"

  "Dunno..."

  "Did you walk there and back, or go in a boat?"

  "In a boat. Their boat."

  "It's not far," said the woman who'd worked there. "It's the highest place. You can't miss it."

  "Have they got lots of kids there?" Malcolm asked her.

  "Yeah, all ages. From babies right up to sixteen, I suppose."

  "What do they do? Teach them, or make them work, or what?"

  "Teach 'em, yeah....They prepare them for lives as servants, that kind of thing."

  "Boys and girls?"

  "Yeah, boys and girls, but after ten years old they keep 'em apart."

  "And the babies, do they keep them apart from the rest?"

  "There's a nursery just for the young ones, yes."

  "How many babies have they got there?"

  "Oh, Lord, I don't know....In my time, there was about fifteen or sixteen...."

  "Are they all orphans?"

  "No. Sometimes if a child is really badly behaved, they take them in. They never get out till they're sixteen. They never see their parents again."

  "How many kids altogether, then? Babies and older ones?"

  "A hundred, maybe..."

  "Don't they ever try to escape?"

  "They might escape once, but they're always caught, and they never dare to do it again."

  "So they're cruel, these nuns?"

  "You wouldn't believe how cruel they can be. You wouldn't believe it."

  "You--Andrew," said Malcolm. "Have you told on any other kids and got them taken in there?"

  "I en't saying," the boy mumbled.

  "Tell the truth, you little shit," his aunt said.

  "No, I en't, then!"

  "Never?" said Malcolm.

  "It en't your busi--"

  His aunt slapped him. His voice rose in a high wail.

  "All right, maybe I have!" he cried.

  "Little sneaking shit," she said.

  "Who do you speak to when you go to report someone?" said Malcolm, desperately trying to keep his focus. His head was throbbing, and waves of nausea came and went. "Where did you go last night? Who did you speak to?"

  "Brother Peter. I en't s'posed to tell you this."

  "I don't care what you're s'posed to tell. Who's Brother Peter, and where did you go to find him?"

  "He's the director of the Office of Child Protection for Wallingford. They got an office at the priory."

  "And he knew you because you'd been to him before?"

  At that, Andrew just buried his head in his arms and howled.

  There were voices behind Malcolm, excited and relieved, and he turned to see, but felt a bout of pain and nausea in his head as he did, so brutal it was like being hit again. He kept still, knowing that the slightest movement of his head would mean being violently sick.

  Alice was beside him, holding his arm.

  "Lean on me," she said. "And come over this way."

  He did as she told him.

  "Lyra," he muttered.

  "We know where she is, and she en't going anywhere else. You can't move now, else you'll be sick. Just sit down here."

  Her voice was quiet and gentle, and that was so surprising that he let himself be led and tended to.

  "Mr. Boatwright's woken up," she said. "He had a crack on the nut, like you did, only worse. Audrey thought he was dead, but he en't. Just keep still now."

  "Here," said a woman's voice, and then, "Let him sip this."

  "Thank you," said Alice. "Here, Mal, sit up a bit and sip this. But mind, it's hot."

  Mal! She had never called him Mal. No one had. He wouldn't let anyone but Alice call him that now. The drink was scalding, and he could only take the smallest sip. It tasted like lemon, the sort of cold remedy his mother sometimes gave him, but there was something else in it.

  "I put a bit of ginger with it," the woman said. "Stops you feeling sick. Otherwise, it's a painkiller."

  "Thank you," he murmured. He had no idea
how he'd had the energy to interrogate Andrew only a minute before.

  He sipped a little more of the drink and fell asleep.

  --

  It was dark again when he woke up. He was warm, and covered in something heavy with a doggish animal smell. He moved a little, and his head didn't punish him for it, so he moved a little more and sat up.

  "Mal," Alice said at once from beside him. "You all right now?"

  "Yeah, I think so," he said.

  "Stay there. I'll get you some bread and cheese."

  She scrambled up, which showed him that she'd been lying beside him. She was more and more surprising. He lay there, slowly waking up, letting the memory of the last day and night slowly wake up too. Then he remembered what had happened to Lyra, and sat up with a convulsive shock. Alice was holding out something for him.

  "Here y'are," she said, putting a hunk of bread in his hand. "It's hard, but it en't moldy. D'you want an egg? I can fry you an egg if you like."

  "No, thanks. Alice, did we really...," he whispered, unable to say any more.

  "Bonneville?" she whispered back. "Yeah, we did. But hush about that. Don't say nothing. It's over."

  Malcolm tried to bite a piece off the hunk of bread and found it so hard that it was a serious challenge to his teeth, and thus to the pain in his head. Still, he persevered. Alice appeared again with a mug of something strong and salty.

  "What's this?"

  "Some sort of stock cube. I dunno. It'll do you good."

  "Thank you," he said, and took a sip. "Has it been night for a long time?"

  "No. There's people out there poaching or summing. It en't been dark long."

  "Where's Andrew?"

  "His auntie's guarding him. He won't get out again."

  "We got to--" He tried to swallow a lump of bread, and then retrieved it and chewed it a bit more before trying again and continuing hoarsely, "We've got to rescue Lyra."

  "Yeah. I been thinking about that."

  "First we got to look at the priory."

  "And," she said, "we got to know exactly what Andrew told 'em about us."

  "D'you think he'd ever tell us the truth?"