ONE - THE ENCHANTED SLEEPER-2

Mrs. Coulter turned back to the water on her stove, which was nearly at the boil.

Crouching down, she crumbled some dried leaves into it, two pinches from this bag, one from that, and added three drops of a pale yellow oil. She stirred it briskly, counting in her head till five minutes had gone by. Then she took the pan off the stove and sat down to wait for the liquid to cool.

Around her there lay some of the equipment from the camp by the blue lake where Sir Charles Latrom had died: a sleeping bag, a rucksack with changes of clothes and washing equipment, and so on. There was also a case of canvas with a tough wooden frame, lined with kapok, containing various instruments; and there was a pistol in a holster.

The decoction cooled rapidly in the thin air, and as soon as it was at blood heat, she poured it carefully into a metal beaker and carried it to the rear of the cave. The monkey daemon dropped his pine cone and came with her.

Mrs. Coulter placed the beaker carefully on a low rock and knelt beside the sleeping Lyra. The golden monkey crouched on her other side, ready to seize Pantalaimon if he woke up.

Lyras hair was damp, and her eyes moved behind their closed lids. She was beginning to stir: Mrs. Coulter had felt her eyelashes flutter when shed kissed her, and knew she didnt have long before Lyra woke up altogether.

She slipped a hand under the girls head, and with the other lifted the damp strands of hair off her forehead. Lyras lips parted and she moaned softly; Pantalaimon moved a little closer to her breast. The golden monkeys eyes never left Lyras daemon, and his little black fingers twitched at the edge of the

sleeping bag.

A look from Mrs. Coulter, and he let go and moved back a hands breadth. The woman gently lifted her daughter so that her shoulders were off the ground and her head lolled, and then Lyra caught her breath and her eyes half-opened, fluttering, heavy.

"Roger," she murmured. "Roger... where are you... I cant see..."

"Shh," her mother whispered, "shh, my darling, drink this."

Holding the beaker in Lyras mouth, she tilted it to let a drop moisten the girls lips. Lyras tongue sensed it and moved to lick them, and then Mrs. Coulter let a little more of the liquid trickle into Lyras mouth, very carefully, letting her swallow each sip before allowing her more.

It took several minutes, but eventually the beaker was empty, and Mrs. Coulter laid her daughter down again. As soon as Lyras head lay on the ground, Pantalaimon moved back around her throat. His red-gold fur was as damp as her hair. They were deeply asleep again.

The golden monkey picked his way lightly to the mouth of the cave and sat once more watching the path. Mrs. Coulter dipped a flannel in a basin of cold water and mopped Lyras face, and then unfastened the sleeping bag and washed Lyras arms and neck and shoulders, for Lyra was hot. Then her mother took a comb and gently teased out the tangles in Lyras hair, smoothing it back from her forehead, parting it neatly.

She left the sleeping hag open so the girl could cool down, and unfolded the bundle that Ama had brought: some flat loaves of bread, a cake of compressed tea, some sticky rice wrapped in a large leaf. It was time to build the fire. The chill of the mountains was fierce at night. Working methodically, she shaved some dry tinder, set the fire, and struck a match. That was something else to think of: the matches were running out, and so was the naphtha for the stove; she must keep the fire alight day and night from now on.

Her daemon was discontented. He didnt like what she was doing here in the cave, and when he tried to express his concern, she brushed him away. He turned his back, contempt in every line of his body as he flicked the scales from his pine cone out into the dark. She took no notice, but worked steadily and skillfully to build up the fire and set the pan to heat some water for tea.

Nevertheless, his skepticism affected her, and as she crumbled the dark gray tea brick into the water, she wondered what in the world she thought she was doing, and whether she had gone mad, and, over and over again, what would happen when the Church found out. The golden monkey was right. She wasnt only hiding Lyra: she was hiding her own eyes.

—

Out of the dark the little boy came, hopeful and frightened, whispering over and over:

"Lyra, Lyra, Lyra... "

Behind him there were other figures, even more shadowy than he was, even more silent. They seemed to be of the same company and of the same kind, but they had no faces that were visible and no voices that spoke; and his voice never rose above a whisper, and his face was shaded and blurred like something half-forgotten.

"Lyra... Lyra..."

Where were they?

On a great plain, where no light shone from the iron-dark sky, and where a mist obscured the horizon on every side. The ground was bare earth, beaten flat by the pressure of millions of feet, even though those feet had less weight than feathers; so it must have been time that pressed it flat, even though time had been stilled in this place; so it must have been the way things were. This was the end of all places and the last of all worlds.

"Lyra..."

Why were they there?

They were imprisoned. Someone had committed a crime, though no one knew what it was, or who had done it, or what authority sat in judgment.

Why did the little boy keep calling Lyras name?

Hope.

Who were they?

Ghosts.

And Lyra couldnt touch them, no matter how she tried. Her baffled hands moved through and through, and still the little boy stood there pleading.

"Roger," she said, but her voice came out in a whisper. "Oh, Roger, where are you? What is this place?"

He said, "Its the world of the dead, Lyra, I dunno what to do, I dunno if Im here forever, and I dunno if I done bad things or what, because I tried to be good, but I hate it, Im scared of it all, I hate it...”

And Lyra said, "Ill

"Be quiet," said Will, "just be quiet. Dont disturb me."