Lyra's Oxford Read Free Page B

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 daemon-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 daemon shakily.
    “Not far,” said Pantalaimon. “But you haven't told us the whole truth. What are you afraid of?”
    The daemon-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 daemon 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 daemon 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? And as for an elixir…
    “Why does your witch need a human medicine? Haven't the witches got all kinds of remedies of their own?”
    “Not for this sickness. It's a new kind. Only the gold elixir can cure it.”
    “If she is sick,” said Pan, “why are you healthy?”
    The bird shrank back into the shadow. A middle-aged couple was passing, arm in arm, their daemons, a mouse and a squirrel, looking back with curious eyes.
    “That is the sickness,” came the shaky words from the shadow. “It is a new kind, from the south. Witches fade and die, and we daemons don't die with them. I have known three of our clan-sisters fall sick with it, and their daemons are still alive—alone and cold. …”
    Pantalaimon gave a little mew of distress and flowed onto Lyra's shoulder. She put her hand up to hold him firmly.
    “Why didn't you say?” she said.
    “I was ashamed. I thought you would shun me. The birds can sense it—they know I bring sickness. That's why they attack me. All the way I have had to avoid flocks of birds, flying many leagues out of the way. …”
    The poor thing looked so wretched, huddled there in the cold shadow; and the thought of his witch, waiting in the north in the faint hope that he'd bring back something to heal her, made tears come to Lyra's eyes. Pan had told her she was too soft and too warmhearted, but it was no good telling her about it. Since she and Will had parted two years before, the slightest thing had the power to move her to pity and distress; it felt as if her heart were bruised forever.
    “Then come on,” she said. “Let's get to Juxon Street. It's not far now.”
    She moved on quickly, with Pan leaping ahead. A dozen troubling thoughts were passing over her mind like cloud shadows swiftly skimming over a cornfield on a breezy day, but there wasn't time to hold them back and examine them, because already they were turning