The Amber Spyglass (His Dark Materials 3)

“Here!” he said, and his voice was free of disapproval and sarcasm for once. “Baruch came this way! And there is one of those windows, almost invisible. Come—come. Come now.”

Will followed eagerly, his weariness forgotten. The window, he saw when he reached it, opened onto a dim, tundra-like landscape that was flatter than the mountains in the Cittàgazze world, and colder, with an overcast sky. He went through, and Balthamos followed him at once.

“Which world is this?” Will said.

“The girl’s own world. This is where they came through. Baruch has gone ahead to follow them.”

“How do you know? Do you read his mind?”

“Of course I read his mind. Wherever he goes, my heart goes with him; we feel as one, though we are two.”

Will looked around. There was no sign of human life, and the chill in the air was increasing by the minute as the light failed.

“I don’t want to sleep here,” he said. “We’ll stay in the Ci’gazze world for the night and come through in the morning. At least there’s wood back there, and I can make a fire. And now I know what her world feels like, I can find it with the knife . . . Oh, Balthamos? Can you take any other shape?”

“Why would I wish to do that?”

“In this world human beings have dæmons, and if I go about without one, they’ll be suspicious. Lyra was frightened of me at first because of that. So if we’re going to travel in her world, you’ll have to pretend to be my dæmon, and take the shape of some animal. A bird, maybe. Then you could fly, at least.”

“Oh, how tedious.”

“Can you, though?”

“I could . . .”

“Do it now, then. Let me see.”

The form of the angel seemed to condense and swirl into a little vortex in midair, and then a blackbird swooped down onto the grass at Will’s feet.

“Fly to my shoulder,” said Will.

The bird did so, and then spoke in the angel’s familiar acid tone:

“I shall only do this when it’s absolutely necessary. It’s unspeakably humiliating.”

“Too bad,” said Will. “Whenever we see people in this world, you become a bird. There’s no point in fussing or arguing. Just do it.”

The blackbird flew off his shoulder and vanished in midair, and there was the angel again, sulking in the half-light. Before they went back through, Will looked all around, sniffing the air, taking the measure of the world where Lyra was captive.

“Where is your companion now?” he said.

“Following the woman south.”

“Then we shall go that way, too, in the morning.”

Next day Will walked for hours and saw no one. The country consisted for the most part of low hills covered in short dry grass, and whenever he found himself on any sort of high point, he looked all around for signs of human habitation, but found none. The only variation in the dusty brown-green emptiness was a distant smudge of darker green, which he made for because Balthamos said it was a forest and there was a river there, which led south. When the sun was at its height, he tried and failed to sleep among some low bushes; and as the evening approached, he was footsore and weary.

“Slow progress,” said Balthamos sourly.

“I can’t help that,” said Will. “If you can’t say anything useful, don’t speak at all.”

By the time he reached the edge of the forest, the sun was low and the air heavy with pollen, so much so that he sneezed several times, startling a bird that flew up shrieking from somewhere nearby.

“That was the first living thing I’ve seen today,” Will said.

“Where are you going to camp?” said Balthamos.

The angel was occasionally visible now in the long shadows of the trees. What Will could see of his expression was petulant.

Will said, “I’ll have to stop here somewhere. You could help look for a good spot. I can hear a stream—see if you can find it.”

The angel disappeared. Will trudged on, through the low clumps of heather and bog myrtle, wishing there was such a thing as a path for his feet to follow, and eyeing the light with apprehension: he must choose where to stop soon, or the dark would force him to stop without a choice.

“Left,” said Balthamos, an arm’s length away. “A stream and a dead tree for firewood. This way . . .”

Will followed the angel’s voice and soon found the spot he described. A stream splashed swiftly between mossy rocks, and disappeared over a lip into a narrow little chasm dark under the overarching trees. Beside the stream, a grassy bank extended a little way back to bushes and undergrowth.

Before he let himself rest, he set about collecting wood, and soon came across a circle of charred stones in the grass, where someone else had made a fire long before. He gathered a pile of twigs and heavier branches and with the knife cut them to a useful length before trying to get them lit. He didn’t know the best way to go about it, and wasted several matches before he managed to coax the flames into life.

The angel watched with a kind of weary patience.

Once the fire was going, Will ate two oatmeal biscuits, some dried meat, and some Kendal Mint Cake, washing it down with gulps of cold water. Balthamos sat nearby, silent, and finally Will said:

“Are you going to watch me all the time? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m waiting for Baruch. He will come back soon, and then I shall ignore you, if you like.”

“Would you like some food?”

Balthamos moved slightly: he was tempted.

“I mean, I don’t know if you eat at all,” Will said, “but if you’d like something, you’re welcome.”

“What is that . . .” said the angel fastidiously, indicating the Kendal Mint Cake.

“Mostly sugar, I think, and peppermint. Here.”

Will broke off a square and held it out. Balthamos inclined his head and sniffed. Then he picked it up, his fingers light and cool against Will’s palm.

“I think this will nourish me,” he said. “One piece is quite enough, thank you.”

He sat and nibbled quietly. Will found that if he looked at the fire, with the angel just at the edge of his vision, he had a much stronger impression of him.

“Where is Baruch?” he said. “Can he communicate with you?”

“I feel that he is close. He’ll be here very soon. When he returns, we shall talk. Talking is best.”

And barely ten minutes later the soft sound of wingbeats came to their ears, and Balthamos stood up eagerly. The next moment, the two angels were embracing, and Will, gazing into the flames, saw their mutual affection. More than affection: they loved each other with a passion.

Baruch sat down beside his companion, and Will stirred the fire, so that a cloud of smoke drifted past the two of them. It had the effect of outlining their bodies so that he could see them both clearly for the first time. Balthamos was slender; his narrow wings were folded elegantly behind his shoulders, and his face bore an expression that mingled haughty disdain with a tender, ardent sympathy, as if he would love all things if only his nature could let him forget their defects. But he saw no defects in Baruch, that was clear. Baruch seemed younger, as Balthamos had said he was, and was more powerfully built, his wings snow-white and massive. He had a simpler nature; he looked up to Balthamos as to the fount of all knowledge and joy. Will found himself intrigued and moved by their love for each other.

“Did you find out where Lyra is?” he said, impatient for news.

“Yes,” said Baruch. “There is a Himalayan valley, very high up, near a glacier where the light is turned into rainbows by the ice. I shall draw you a map in the soil so you don’t mistake it. The girl is captive in a cave among the trees, kept asleep by the woman.”

“Asleep? And the woman’s alone? No soldiers with her?”

“Alone, yes. In hiding.”

“And Lyra’s not harmed?”

“No. Just asleep, and dreaming. Let me show you where they are.”

With his pale finger, Baruch traced a map in the bare soil beside the fire. Will took his notebook and copied it exactly. It showed a glacier with a curious serpentine shape, flowing down between three almost identical mountain peaks.

“Now,” said the angel, “we go closer. The valley with the cave runs down from the left side of the glacier, and a river of meltwater runs through it. The head of the valley is here . . .”