Colombo, Sri Lanka

Mary Malone studies the pattern the yarrow stalks have made on the bed.  There are many ways of divining information.  Lyra has the alethiometer.  Anyone who has a phone can google for it.  And for her, there is the I Ching.

There is danger

You can help

'How on earth am I supposed to do that when I'm stuck here?' she asks aloud, while her bird-daemon stands one-legged on the TV on the other side of her hotel room, regarding her quizzically.

Siemione

It is quite impossible for strangers to enter a village – any village, anywhere in all the infinite number of worlds which comprise the multiverse – without being the subjects of intense curiosity among its inhabitants.  When Giancarlo and Guilietta first appear in the cleft in the hills above Siemione, following the stream which, widening as it goes, gives fresh water to its people and is the reason that it exists, for without the sandy beach, wide foreshore and natural harbour which the stream created, nobody would have settled there, the informal telegraph springs into action, signalling their approach to anyone who is interested.

As they reach the low sea-wall in front of the row of small houses which make up the main street of Siemione a group of men come up to them.  One, bigger than the rest and clearly their leader, steps forward and speaks to Giancarlo.

'Bongiorno, signore.'

'Good day to you.'

'Have you come far today?'

'Over the hills.'  Giancarlo points to the north, in the opposite direction to Cittagazze.  He hopes that this lie will serve and that they were not observed by a shepherd as they approached from the south.  'Not far.'

'Which town do you come from?'

Think carefully.  Choose somewhere large, where many people live and they do not all know each other.

'Monteligorne.'  That will do.

'Monteligorne, eh?  Perhaps you know my cousin Leo Grazze?  In the Via delle Viti?'

This must be a trap.  There is probably no such street.

'No, I've never met him.  I'm looking for a man called Demio.  He is the cousin of my Aunt Sophia, who lives over there.'  Giancarlo points vaguely to the south.

'Demio?'  The man scratches his chin.

'Yes.  In her letter, Aunt Sophia said that he would guide us to her.  We, my sister and me, we're going to visit her.'

'Her letter?'  The man's face darkens and he looks suspicious.  'Since when did Sophia Vicenze write letters?  She cannot read, let alone write.'

Be very careful now…

'I don't know.  Perhaps Uncle Marco wrote it for her.  Perhaps someone else did.  Am I in the right place?  They told me that I would find a man called Demio in Siemione who would guide us to Aunt Sophia's house.'

'I am Demio Vicenze.'  A short man elbows his way to the front of the group.  'Who are you?'

'I am Mario Carina.  This is my sister, Eva.'

'I did not know that Cousin Sophia had a nephew and niece.  When did you last see Marco and Sophia?'

'Years ago.  We stayed at their house all summer and looked after the goats.'  Giancarlo describes a holiday in the hills, bathing in the stream, climbing the trees, visiting Cittagazze.  His story's mixture of accurate detail and imaginative fantasy convinces Demio, who relaxes and smiles.

'It is a beautiful place, where they live.  But they are poor, as you would not have seen, then, when you were younger.  Here,' and he waves his hand, taking in the village and the sea, 'we have the sea and the fishing, and we can live, but on the land it is hard.

'Come.  Today the wind blows from the west,' Demio points straight out to sea, 'and there is no fishing.  Do they know how to mend nets, in Monteligorne?'

'Yes, of course.'  Every child of Cittagazze is taught to mend nets.

'Then we will sit on the sand and mend nets.'

There is a group of fishing boats drawn up on the beach below the wall in the late afternoon sun.  They sit on the sand, next to Demio's boat Gabbiano and patch and re-knot the broken threads of the nets which are his livelihood.

The nets are old and rotted.  They should be replaced.  But where are the new ones to come from?  Giancarlo asks himself.  The Knife.  It all comes down to the Knife.

Demio and his wife live in one of the whitewashed houses which face out to sea towards the setting sun.  She makes Giancarlo and Guilietta welcome and shows them the small room with its two palliasses where they will sleep tonight.  'If the wind blows offshore tomorrow Demio will go fishing and I will take you to Cousin Sophia's.  If not, we will all go.  I have not seen Sophia or Marco for many years.'  Her sun-browned face crinkles with smiles.  'They are good people.'

'But sad.'

'Yes, Mario.  We are all sad, these days.  One day, perhaps, a time will come when we will not need to be so unhappy.'

Tonight, in honour of their visit, Demio tells them, they will not eat at home, but in the house of the Capo, the man who questioned them when they first entered Siemione.

'It is an honour.  He is a great man, and his house is very splendid.'

To Giancarlo, who has lived in Cittagazze and London, the Capo's house, which stands alone at the end of the row of houses is not so very grand and neither is the Capo himself, who has clearly gained his position as headman of the village more by the use of his fists than through any innate qualities of leadership. 

The Capo sits at the head of a long table, with his sons by him and his wife and daughters serve food to them all.  Demio and his wife are very deferential towards them, as are the other villagers who have gathered together for this feast.

The food is put on the table.  There are grilled sardines and monkfish, with a ratatouille of aubergines, tomatoes, olives and peppers, golden pan-baked bread and white wine.  Giancarlo is ready to start eating, when Demio nudges him and tells him to wait.

'We must give thanks for our food.'

The Capo stands and raises his hands above his broad shoulders.  The other villagers bow forward over the table.  Giancarlo and Guilietta follow their example.

'Let us bless the Angels who have provided for us.

'Bless and thank the Angel Of The Sea, who has sent the silver fishes to our nets, that we may eat and be satisfied; and lift our voices in praise to him.'

'Grazie, elogiarlo,' the villagers respond.

'Bless and thank the Angel Of The Sky, who has sent the sun and the rain, that we may drink and be satisfied; and lift our voices in praise to him.'

'Grazie, elogiarlo.'

'Bless and thank the Angel Of The Land, who has sent the grains and the vines, that we may eat and drink and be satisfied; and lift our voices in praise to him.'

'Grazie, elogiarlo.'

'Bless and thank the Angel Of Our Hearts, who has made us to know him; and lift our voices in praise to him.'

'Grazie, elogiarlo.'

Giancarlo sees one of the Capo's sons get up and go to the end of the room, behind his father.  At a signal, he draws a curtain aside, which Giancarlo had supposed to cover a window.

'And let us bless, praise, honour and mourn our Image and our Pride, our Sorrow and our Joy.'

'Tullio!' a man sitting to Guilietta's right cries out.

'Tullio!  Our Tullio!' sobs a woman near the back of the room.

'Praise him.  Praise Tullio!'  Voices are speaking softly from all sides.

What is this?  Looking up, Giancarlo sees what the curtain has been hiding.

The Knife.

Or, rather, a crude wooden carving of the Subtle Knife of the Torre degli Angeli, painted silver.  All around him, the villagers are standing, bowing towards the Knife's image, crying out in rapture:

'Tullio, save us!'

'Tullio, joy of my heart!'

'Be with us!'

The Capo motions for silence.  'All praise, all honour, all joy, all reverence to our Holy Lord, our Saviour, our Prophet; Saint Tullio, Martyr and Apostle.'

'Until the Holy Knife be restored,' the people murmur.

'Until the Knife be restored to its Holy Purpose.'

And Giancarlo feels that the eyes of the whole village are upon him, and that the Capo can see straight through to his soul, and knows its deceptions, and despises them, and that the Knife, hidden in his waistband, is as utterly visible as if he had taken it out and held it above his head and cried out aloud, 'Here is the Knife!  And here am I, Giancarlo Bellini, its Bearer!'

The moment passes.  The curtain is drawn over the image and the people relax, sit down and begin to eat.

'Was that not magnificent?' Demio asks Giancarlo.

'I have never seen anything so… fine.'

'We are the First.  We are the Founders of the Holy Church of St Tullio of the Knife.'

'Saint Tullio the Martyr?'

'Yes.  Saint Tullio, who will return to us, bearing the Knife and bringing its great gifts to us.'

Giancarlo falls silent and eats.  He has been shaken by the fervour of these people, and he is fearful too.  He is thankful that he has not asked Demio to take Guilietta and him away in his boat or divulged the truth about his and his sister's real identities.

The fish are delicious and Giancarlo and his sister are hungry.  Giancarlo drinks the wine that is offered to him, and, as the evening progresses, becomes comfortable and relaxed.  He notices, but attaches no importance to the fact, that the Capo leaves the room at one point for a few minutes, but supposes that he has simply gone out to relieve himself.  There is goat's cheese to follow, and more wine. 

Guilietta sees that her brother is enjoying himself, although she wishes that he would not drink so much, as he is bound to feel sick in the morning.  She sees the other villagers take their leave, but is surprised when Demio and his wife go, and they do not go too.  She drifts in and out of sleep – it is late, and they have been walking all day, and the room is smoky.  Giancarlo is smoking one of the Capo's pipes; something which she has never seen him do before.  The fumes which fill the room take hold of her, making her dizzy and confused, and she slips into unconsciousness.

Then there is a sequence of images, glimpsed between blackouts, and words which stand out clearly above the buzzing which fills her head.  Two men, whom she has not seen before, standing with the headman.  'That's him.'

Blank.

Giancarlo with netting looped around his arms.  Why isn't he fighting them?  'Let's take it now.'  'No.  It is holy.  Wait for the One.'

Blank.

Two men have taken her by the legs and shoulders and she is being carried into a dark place.  She tries to wriggle out of their grip, but she seems to be paralysed. She cannot move, just as in a nightmare. She tries to call Help! but her voice dies in her throat.

Blank.

Oxford

The bus drops Judy Beckley outside the multiplex.  The garish interior smells of carpet cleaner and popcorn, sickly and antiseptic.  Will is there, waiting for her.

'Judy!  Great!  You look nice!'

Phew!

'Come on, then.  I've got us Cokes and candyfloss and numbered seats.'

'At the back?'  Oh yes?

'At the back.  You don't want to be kicked to death by overexcited kids, do you?'

'No, I do not.  Thank you.'  Will takes Judy's shoulder and guides her into Screen One.