The Arrival
(Disclaimer: These characters and themes belong to Philip Pullman, not me.)
When Clara Norwell first stepped into Marisa Coulter's London apartment, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Never had she seen such a stately, yet intricately feminine, foyer and sitting room. Everything seemed to be made either of stone or glass; the slate fireplace contrasted fashionably with the crystal decanter and brandy snifters on the coffee table between the two cream-colored couches. Above the mantelpiece was an impressionistic portrait of Mrs. Coulter and her daemon, the infamous golden monkey. There was something sensual about the portrait, the way Mrs. Coulter's shoulders were bare, and the monkey was enfolded in her arms, his sleek head resting against the crimson drape she wore.
A little chill of fear and admiration ran up Clara's spine. Belarius, her dog daemon, wagged his tail nervously and nipped at her heels.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"Still at lunch with Lord Boreal, I presume," Clara replied, clutching tightly at her purse.
After Mrs. Coulter had chosen Clara to be her new personal assistant during a meeting that afternoon at the Magisterial Seat, she'd arranged for the girl to be let in to the apartment. That afternoon, she'd had an important lunch date with Lord Boreal to discuss official Magisterium business. When Clara arrived at the Highgate, Mrs. Coulter's apartment building, the concierge had kindly offered to carry her suitcase, and the two of them had ridden up the elevator to the sixteenth floor. The concierge had let her in and placed her suitcase in the foyer; and when she reached into her purse to give him a few coins as a tip, he'd refused.
"Thank you, Miss," he said, "but Mrs. Coulter has already been quite generous with me."
"Oh, I see. Did she say when she'd be back?"
"Unfortunately, no. But please, do make yourself at home. Those were her instructions."
He turned to leave, but Clara stopped him.
"What is it, Miss?" he said.
"Would you…would you mind staying with me until she returns?" Clara felt uneasy at the prospect of lounging in her new mistress' home all by herself, especially this apartment, which was as intimidating as it was beautiful.
"I'm sorry, Miss, but I've pressing duties downstairs; I couldn't possibly leave the lobby unattended." His daemon, also a dog, wagged her tail impatiently.
But Clara knew he'd seen the fear in her eyes; he seemed to hesitate a little at the door.
"I do wish I could stay, Miss," he said, bowing his head. "I know how unsettling this must be for you. Where d'you come from?"
"Oxford," she said. "I was a Scholar at Jordan College."
"A female Scholar? I wasn't aware there were such things."
"Yes, sir, we are a rare breed." She attempted a smile. "I wasn't having much success in my studies, you see, because I found it impossible to follow the rules."
"The rules?"
"Yes, there are very strict rules that govern experimental theology. All experiments at Jordan are conducted in the spirit of public knowledge; it was imperative that I reported all results to the Master's High Council, and that they were disseminated at once."
"To whom?"
"To the entire university community. You see, there was no sense of individual discovery; once a breakthrough was made, it was the property not only of the Council but also all the other Scholars and faculty."
"But couldn't the whole group of experimental theologians simply work together to make even bigger discoveries?"
"Ah, that was the Council's dream. A beautiful, impossible dream. It would have been ideal if we'd all been friends, if we'd all been working on the same problems. But nothing is ever that simple. When I would make a discovery, my rival Scholars in Jordan and other colleges could read all about it in the quarterlies and use it against me in experiments that undermined my original hypotheses."
"What sort of hypotheses?"
"Well, my primary area of research was Dust."
"You mean, those particles from outer space?"
"Yes, something like that. Anyway, after extensive experimentation, I developed a hypothesis: that this Dust came from another world, filtered through the Aurora Borealis; you know, the Northern Lights, and it was possible, sometime in the future, to build a bridge to this other world."
Clara paused, silently fuming at the thought of what she was about to say.
"Then, just as the Council caught wind of my hypothesis, Lord Asriel Belacqua stepped in and began his own series of experiments with Dust. He came to the same conclusions I did; and no wonder! He'd read of my procedures in the quarterly and decided to steal them for his own personal use, to become something of a hero and a savior. Never have I met a man more corrupt than Asriel."
"So how do Mrs. Coulter and the Magisterium fit into all this?" the concierge asked. He seemed to have forgotten his responsibilities downstairs and now stared wide-eyed at this young woman from Oxford in her prim blue skirt suit, her oddly meek daemon wagging his tail beside her. In a flash, she saw herself through his eyes—a lonely, pathetic creature—and she began to wonder why she was telling him all these things. But something inside her wouldn't let her stop.
"Just around the time that Asriel announced that he'd discovered the origin of Dust," she continued, "I was approached by Fra Pavel, an agent of the Magisterium. He told me of Mrs. Coulter's work with Dust and childhood intercision—"
"That will be quite enough, Clara," said a voice from behind her.
Belarius yelped, and Clara turned around to face Mrs. Coulter, tall and slender and breathtakingly beautiful, illuminated by the soft anbaric light from the room in whose doorway she stood.
"Mrs. Coulter, I—I didn't think you were home," Clara said.
The golden monkey scowled and fixed Belarius with a cold glare. Belarius jumped into Clara's arms for protection.
"I should be going," the concierge said, bowing deeply to Mrs. Coulter.
"Claude, please excuse my new assistant. Whatever stories she was telling you were purely fiction and calculated solely for your entertainment. Isn't that right, Clara?" Her tone was so cool and controlled that even butter wouldn't have melted in her mouth.
Clara gulped and nodded, afraid to say anything to the contrary.
"Well, then," said Mrs. Coulter, tossing her dark curls, "you are dismissed, Claude."
The concierge bowed again, tipped his hat, and walked out the door, closing it gently behind him.
Clara felt a heaviness in the pit of her stomach; she knew Belarius felt it too by the way he was whimpering and cowering between her legs, using them as a kind of barricade against the golden monkey.
Mrs. Coulter wore a patient smile, as though Clara were a dimwitted child who required instruction rather than discipline. Clara expected her to say something, anything, to lessen the tension in the room, but she didn't. The two women stood there, before the fireplace, staring into each other's eyes. The golden monkey was still; the only thing that moved was his tail, which flicked rhythmically against Mrs. Coulter's ankles. Clara was surprised by the darkness and depth of her mistress' eyes; they seemed almost incandescent, governed by a passion that Clara, who prided herself on her verbal ability, couldn't name.
They stood like that for a few more moments before Clara broke the silence: "What do you call him?" she said, pointing to the golden monkey.
"I don't call him anything."
"I mean, what was his given name?"
"Marisa Coulter. He and I are one and the same." She smiled with a certain self-satisfaction. "Do you always ask so many questions, ma petite?"
Clara shook her head, trying to hide her apprehension. She looked up at Mrs. Coulter, so much in control of herself. Every aspect of her appearance, from her carefully curled hair and flawless porcelain skin to her black designer suit and stilettos, had been calculated for maximum effect. If only Clara could learn to present herself like that, to give the impression of always having the upper hand, of having the cool confidence of one whose place in the world was secure….
"You're shaking like a leaf," Mrs. Coulter said, placing her arm around Clara's shoulders. Clara looked down at the slender white fingers with their long manicured nails. She noticed that Mrs. Coulter still wore her diamond engagement ring, though it had been years since Mr. Coulter's passing.
At once, Clara's vision was blurred by tears.
"What's wrong, ma petite?" Mrs. Coulter said.
Clara bit her lip to stop the flow of tears, but to no avail.
"Come, sit with me on the sofa." Mrs. Coulter held Clara in her arms as the girl wept. She took a cream-colored silk handkerchief from her jacket pocket and extended it to her.
Clara looked at it through a haze of tears: it was embroidered with the letters MJC.
She was reluctant to take it, to use an object of such beauty on her own face; she didn't feel that she deserved it.
"Here," said Mrs. Coulter, wiping away the girl's tears herself, very gently, so as not to damage the delicate skin around her eyes; then, she tucked the handkerchief away again in her pocket.
"Oh, Mrs. Coulter," Clara said, blushing, "I'm afraid I've ruined your handkerchief and your lapel, both."
Mrs. Coulter looked down at the small damp spot Clara's tears had made on her jacket and laughed. "Don't be silly, my dear; it will dry."
Clara noticed that the golden monkey had taken Belarius in his arms, as well, and was cooing softly in his ear.
"Think of all we can accomplish together," Mrs. Coulter was saying. "With all the resources of the Magisterium, no one can stop us. Not even Asriel."
Clara smiled, but noticed that Belarius was beginning to squirm out of the monkey's clutches.
"You needn't worry, Clara," Mrs. Coulter said. "You are safe with me, always."
To be continued….