"You're a fool and you deserve this"
His inner voice sounded like Sister Judy. The nun was more fond of parables of warning than old-fashioned education, which was why Roger fearfully respected her. Not that he hadn't learned anything from the cane or the flesh-twisting pinches (they left him paralyzed in his early life when he was more given to mischief, and would later dissuade him from even thinking about committing them), but the nun's exhortations had helped him internalize the dangers of recklessness more effectively. The teaching had turned out to be so useful and enlightening, and it fitted in with his character. He thus discovered that what many called cowardice was not far from the animalistic instint to take cover from the threat of danger. He always thought that he would die prematurely, but not because of recklessness. And yet here he was, getting his due punishment for having ignored all the alarm bells that had begun to sound with increasing intensity since Lyra had convinced him to steal a couple of wheelbarrows and some thick uncut logs until they had ventured into deep water with a boat clumsily tied with fishing line. He didn't know how to swim, so he would surely drown. He wondered if Sister Judy would pray for his soul. Roger liked to think that he was not a hopeless case.
The world disintegrated into a thousand bubbles. Icy water entered his nostrils and his brain went numb. Fortunately, his feet touched the soft bed of mud at the bottom earlier than expected. He pushed himself to the surface, discovering with relief that she was safe. The water was up to his shoulders.
"What a look on your face," Lyra laughed next to him, splashing him.
Roger received the water passively, too disbelieving in his luck to fight back.
"You said it was four meters deep," he reminded her.
"Oh, Roger, that's impossible."
Lyra seemed to believe that it was lawful to tell a lie when It was too stupid to be believed. Truth be told, the list of lies one could be permissive with according to her was disconcertingly long for Roger, who had been taught in the orphanage that even little lies incurred sin. For Lyra, the risk of death was the indispensable addition to any adventure worth its salt, which undoubtedly justified lying for the sake of enjoyment.
Roger decided that he would do well to remember that, even though he couldn't refuse any of her crazy ideas. Lyra had that effect. Roger had studied some astronomy, altough briefly and with some reservation from the nuns who were in charge of the educational program. The only thing he had learned was that larger stars like the sun attracted smaller celestial bodies to their orbit. Lyra seemed to fit that description, except for the fact that he had seen her woo adults and authority figures in the same way.
On the other hand, being swept away by her brought some rewards. After a while, his mind would wrap the unpleasant details in a dull patina. The water of his memories would not be icy cold, but a very welcome coolness in July, and the unpleasant tingling of suspended algae and oxygenating plants on the muddy bottom would imprint on his memory as a new and exciting sensation.
When he confessed that he had never bathed in such dirty water, Lyra didn't understand. What for the rest of the world was dirty, for her it was simply natural. Saying this, the girl floated on her back, her golden ringlets blurring the mossy surface of the pond.
"We haven't tied the raft right," Roger observed half an hour later, as he gathered up the drifting logs and piled them on the edge of the pond.
Leaving them in a corner where no one bothered to look for them was wiser than returning them to the shed and risking questioning (he tought about those women who would left her unwmated newborns in a baby hatch). Roger placed the last stump with special care, seeing the shape of a haunted face in the bark. He often attributed human qualities to inanimate objects.
"The knot was weak," Lyra assured. "But the boat would have sunk anyway."
She then offered her damage assessment. The coniferous wood used for the coals didn't have the ideal density to float. She hadn't considered a rehearsal beforehand, nor had she taken into account that Archimedes principle would end up capsizing them when the water reached their calves. Lyra knew a lot of things, but she rarely stopped to think about them for a second. She went quickly from one plan to another, and they all ended up halfway. As the summer wore on, this trend had only become more acute.
"Something big awaits us this summer, Roger. Something exciting and dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Roger asked with a nervous laugh.
"Of course! One of those adventures you won't forget even if you wanted to. An inspiring adventure."
"Have you written anything lately?"
Lyra frowned.
"Only a few lines. I want to enjoy the process, but latelty I feel like I'm wasting my time.
Roger didn't quite understand. He didn't feel that he was wasting his time when he spent it on something he liked. The people he wrote were weird. He just hoped that whatever Lyra ended up writing, she would read it to him. He didn't know how to read.
"I wouldn't mind if nothing extraordinary happens. I have a good time here."
"Don't you miss the other orphans?"
Roger shrugged. To this day, a year after joining Mr. Holloway's service as kitchen boy, he couldn't say that he missed anyone in particular. He didn't need to talk about his past life often. Most of the times he talked about the orphanage was because Lyra was bringing it up. Roger was pale and stiff as death when the foolish girl told him that she had shared a few words with Tom Riddle on her visit to the orphanage months before, and he had only regained color when she shared the details. They ended up laughing out loud.
Still, something inside him pushed him to remenber Tom from time to time, as if he could empower himself in the oblivion. A known terror was preferable to a forgotten one. Today, however, as they lay shoulder to shoulder under the intense summer sun, the old fears of yore seemed to evaporate along with the dampness of their clothes. The seconds passed in rhythm with their calm breathing. It was one of those days when clouds studded the sky without actually covering it, and Lyra, in one of those rare moments of contemplation, amused herself by identifying them with shapes of animals that Roger did not know. Where Lyra could make out an exotic bird with a curved beak, Roger only saw a person with an aquiline nose.
They concluded their little adventure and returned to their respective chores at four o'clock. Roger had to peel potatoes; Lyra had a visitor to attend.
"My father didn't want to tell me," Lyra answered when Roger asked her about the visitor. "He says I'll like him."
Lyra headed up the paved path that led to the entrance of the manor house and Roger went to the service entrance. As usual, he walked with his head cocked towards the building. The two pastel pink and blue floors bounded by wavy white baseboards, moldings, and cornices had always reminded him of a huge two-flavored wedding cake topped with meringue. Even today, accustomed to taking that route every day, he had not completely shaken off a certain feeling of unreality, but at least it was no longer like his first days here, in which all seemed like a dream that could vanish in a moment. He woke up every morning in his mahogany bed, which he already felt like his own. He had his uniform and had a change of it, to which he would resort once he had cleaned himself in the service showers, available at any time of day. He told himself that he was lucky to be part of a universe other than the orphanage. All this was not a home for practical purposes nor were the lords or the servants a family in the strict sense, but it brought a welcome familiarity to his life.
Ed Yeates, the senior kitchen boy, was putting wood into the firebox. When Roger came in with the two empty carts, he gave him a meaningfull look that suggested he knew what had happened. He was sparing with words, and everything he had to say he said with a slap.
Roger had to fill a car with firewood as punishment. At five o'clock the sun had already reached its zenith and began its slow and imperceptible descent. The temperature had softened slightly, but it seemed to Roger that it was hotter than ever. His left cheek burned with particular intensity. He knew he deserved it, and yet he couldn't help but be puzzled. He had thought of Ed as one of those taciturn people whose surliness was revealed only by grunts and pouts.
The forest had changed. The summer drought had washed away some of the substrate. Many of the conifers, stiff and weak, had finally given way to the blows of an unexpected dry storm. Consequently, there were branches of pine and above scattered everywhere that facilitated their task. He was so engrossed in his activity that it took him a while to realize that he wasn't alone.
He was close, about fifty feet away. At first Roger didn't give it the least bit of importance. The librarian received frequent visitors, each one more peculiar than the last. However, peculiar was not the word that best suited this individual.
He was… out of place. Like something out of some old photograph or painting from long ago, although Roger couldn't pinpoint the time due to his poor knowledge of history.
He also seemed out of context. Those buckled shoes weren't the most practical for walking through the woods, let alone the white stockings that would undoubtedly end up dirty and leaky. Roger felt hot just looking at his dark baggy pants and that sort of jacket with round bulky shoulders. In another kind of man, that strange costume would have given him a regal bearing. But this one was hunched over looking at the horizon, and Roger thought he looked like a parodic version of what he was supposed to be, like a sad clown.
And he was expectant, waiting for something.
A sound of footsteps distracted him. What he had just seen would make him uneasy as the days went by, but not as much as the person who appeared next.
"Roger Parslow," Tom Riddle greeted with a smile.
"Tom."
Roger brought the bundle of branches to his chest. In the quick clumsiness of this involuntary action, some of the branches fell off. Tom bridged the distance with long, merry strides. His last step noisily crushed the fallen branches under his shoes.
He anticipated the question that Roger was unable to formulate.
"Mr. Longslade has decided that I should spend the summer here."
He announced it in that silky voice of his, so different from the rest of the orphans.
"Lyra was supposed to show me the house and grounds, but she refused without feigning the slightest courtesy. Can you believe it? Some rich children do not show the good education that is expected of them. But I dont care. You know how much I like to explore.
He smiled again. It wasn't one of those smirks of his, but a real smile. What happened a year ago, that horrible experience, made him genuinely happy. Roger felt nauseated.
"But I wonder if she has a real reason to hate me," he said slowly, his black eyes fixing on him with such intensity that Roger looked away. "Do you know anything about it?"
Roger didn't reply. "Tom" had been and would be the last word he said that day.
"Well, I suppose she'll change her mind in time." Tom's tone suggested that she would have no choice but to do so. The librarian can't return me like an unsatisfying birthday present to a wayward girl who already has one just like it. Well, I will continue my exploration. Until we meet, Roger. Probably for dinner time!"
Saying that, Tom shook Roger's trembling hand so hard that he groaned in pain. The wheelbarrow was full, but Roger decided to wait until Tom had gotten far enough to go back to the mansion. He was so shocked that he had completely forgotten about the mysterious man, whom he would meet in several days.