The Golden Compass (Page 67)

The Samoyed spoke again, and the man from Bolvangar said to Lyra, “You speak English?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Does your daemon always take that form?”

Of all the unexpected questions! Lyra could only gape. But Pantalaimon answered it in his own fashion by becoming a falcon, and launching himself from her shoulder at the man’s daemon, a large marmot, which struck up at Pantalaimon with a swift movement and spat as he circled past on swift wings.

“I see,” said the man in a tone of satisfaction, as Pantalaimon returned to Lyra’s shoulder.

The Samoyed men were looking expectant, and the man from Bolvangar nodded and took off a mitten to reach into a pocket. He took out a drawstring purse and counted out a dozen heavy coins into the hunter’s hand.

The two men checked the money, and then stowed it carefully, each man taking half. Without a backward glance they got in the sledge, and the driver cracked the whip and shouted to the dogs; and they sped away across the wide white arena and into the avenue of lights, gathering speed until they vanished into the dark beyond.

The man was opening the door again.

“Come in quickly,” he said. “It’s warm and comfortable. Don’t stand out in the cold. What is your name ?”

His voice was an English one, without any accent Lyra could name. He sounded like the sort of people she had met at Mrs. Coulter’s: smart and educated and important.

“Lizzie Brooks,” she said.

“Come in, Lizzie. We’ll look after you here, don’t worry.”

He was colder than she was, even though she’d been outside for far longer; he was impatient to be in the warm again. She decided to play slow and dim-witted and reluctant, and dragged her feet as she stepped over the high threshold into the building.

There were two doors, with a wide space between them so that not too much warm air escaped. Once they were through the inner doorway, Lyra found herself sweltering in what seemed unbearable heat, and had to pull open her furs and push back her hood.

They were in a space about eight feet square, with corridors to the right and left, and in front of her the sort of reception desk you might see in a hospital. Everything was brilliantly lit, with the glint of shiny white surfaces and stainless steel. There was the smell of food in the air, familiar food, bacon and coffee, and under it a faint perpetual hospital-medical smell; and coming from the walls all around was a slight humming sound, almost too low to hear, the sort of sound you had to get used to or go mad.

Pantalaimon at her ear, a goldfinch now, whispered, “Be stupid and dim. Be really slow and stupid.”

Adults were looking down at her: the man who’d brought her in, another man wearing a white coat, a woman in a nurse’s uniform.

“English,” the first man was saying. “Traders, apparently.”

“Usual hunters? Usual story?”

“Same tribe, as far as I could tell. Sister Clara, could you take little, umm, and see to her?”

“Certainly, Doctor. Come with me, dear,” said the nurse, and Lyra obediently followed.

They went along a short corridor with doors on the right and a canteen on the left, from which came a clatter of knives and forks, and voices, and more cooking smells. The nurse was about as old as Mrs. Coulter, Lyra guessed, with a brisk, blank, sensible air; she would be able to stitch a wound or change a bandage, but never to tell a story. Her daemon (and Lyra had a moment of strange chill when she noticed) was a little white trotting dog (and after a moment she had no idea why it had chilled her).

“What’s your name, dear?” said the nurse, opening a heavy door. “Lizzie.” “Just Lizzie?” “Lizzie Brooks.” “And how old are you?” “Eleven.”

Lyra had been told that she was small for her age, whatever that meant. It had never affected her sense of her own importance, but she realized that she could use the fact now to make Lizzie shy and nervous and insignificant, and shrank a little as she went into the room.

She was half expecting questions about where she had come from and how she had arrived, and she was preparing answers; but it wasn’t only imagination the nurse lacked, it was curiosity as well. Bolvangar might have been on the outskirts of London, and children might have been arriving all the time, for all the interest Sister Clara seemed to show. Her pert neat little daemon trotted along at her heels just as brisk and blank as she was.

In the room they entered there was a couch and a table and two chairs and a filing cabinet, and a glass cupboard with medicines and bandages, and a wash basin. As soon as they were inside, the nurse took Lyra’s outer coat off and dropped it on the shiny floor.

“Off with the rest, dear,” she said. “We’ll have a quick little look to see you’re nice and healthy, no frostbite or sniffles, and then we’ll find some nice clean clothes. We’ll pop you in the shower, too,” she added, for Lyra had not changed or washed for days, and in the enveloping warmth, that was becoming more and more evident.

Pantalaimon fluttered in protest, but Lyra quelled him with a scowl. He settled on the couch as one by one all Lyra’s clothes came off, to her resentment and shame; but she still had the presence of mind to conceal it and act dull-witted and compliant.

“And the money belt, Lizzie,” said the nurse, and untied it herself with strong fingers. She went to drop it on the pile with Lyra’s other clothes, but stopped, feeling the edge of the alethiometer.

“What’s this?” she said, and unbuttoned the oilcloth.

“Just a sort of toy,” said Lyra. “It’s mine.”

“Yes, we won’t take it away from you, dear,” said Sister Clara, unfolding the black velvet. “That’s pretty, isn’t it, like a compass. Into the shower with you,” she went on, putting the alethiometer down and whisking back a coal-silk curtain in the corner.