It had all started idly enough, the searching for someone to repair the knife. He had not meant to go anywhere with it. He had not meant, for example, to actually seek out the people. And yet he had. He had noticed, somewhere, an obscure mention of a family of professional metalcrafters, and he had found out more. They were not widely advertized; he had gotten the impression that they catered mostly to rich people in America. And there had come a day in early September, before school began, when Mary was at a conference in London and had taken his mother with her. And he had gotten on a bus to Southampton. And he had come with the knife in its sheath at his belt.
Now he had done it all again, the joining of the pieces. And it had been hard, harder than before. But he had done it, and he held the knife. It was dull and only about six inches long, but he knew it was just the same. Tired though he was, every nerve in his body trembled with the feeling of holding it again, and the raised gold fit his grip perfectly.
John had driven him back to East Street from the forge, and now Will stammered out a thanks and left the car. Where? Where should he go now, to cut a window? He cast around him, but the street was full of people coming in and out of the shops. But there were parks here, extensive ones, and certainly he could find a secluded area...
"What about thinking things through?" said Kirjava softly.
"I've thought about it," he replied, his breathing ragged and reckless. "And I've decided. I decided a long time ago, I think."
Kirjava said nothing, and Will could feel her confliction. She wanted another window, of course she did, but...
Will ignored her and concentrated on walking, walking down the street and to the left, and down more streets until he came to the parks, the large, beautiful parks of Southampton. He couldn't remember how long it took him to get there. All he could remember was starting to walk, and then arriving instantaneously. Time was behaving strangely for him now, and before he could take in any of the park at all he was walking through it, and he arrived at a wide, slow-moving river at the edge of the city.
It was perfect, of course. There were no people, and the river was surrounded with trees to make a sort of green tunnel with sunlight illuminating the center of the water like it was a path to heaven. Will stood among the trees on the riverbank, in a small patch of green-gold grass, and a narrow path led back the way he had come.
His heart was thudding painfully fast and hard, and his hand shook so violently he could barely keep hold of the knife. He breathed deeply to calm himself, and thought about Lyra. In her world he would come out something like forty miles from Oxford; he could only hope she was still living there. But he could find Jordan College, and at the very least someone there would know where she had gone.
He had left a note for his mother and Mary, saying only that he would be back. Even while writing the words he had felt uneasy, because he didn't know if they were true.
"When you find Lyra, what then?" asked Kirjava, knowing what he was thinking. "Will you stay there with her, ten years and then die?"
"I wouldn't have to stay," he whispered. "I could just see her and then come back."
Kirjava laughed softly. "Do you really think we could do that again? Leave when we had just found them?"
Will shook his head miserably. Of course they couldn't. "I could leave a window open, and come back through sometimes. The window for the dead, that's open, just one more window couldn't let too much Dust out."
Kirjava knew this wasn't true and knew also that he knew it himself, so she said nothing.
"Or I could...the angel said she was going to get rid of the Specters, and if I just kept making windows quickly whenever I needed to, it wouldn't matter, she could get rid of the Specters I'd create," he said desperately.
But Kirjava was shaking her head. "Do you think she'd clean up after you like that? She wouldn't. It was a bargain, remember, and if she knew you were using the knife she'd close the window from the world of the dead, and everyone would be stuck down there forever."
Will was grasping at straws now, and he said without thinking, "If dæmons can only live in their own world, you could—" And he stopped.
She looked up at him sadly. "Would you leave me, Will? Would you have me stay here lonely forever while you lived happily with Lyra?"
He gasped at the thought and at the pain on her small, feline face. He knelt quickly on the grass and scooped her up in his left arm and held her close to his chest. "I couldn't be happy without you, not ever," he said, muffled, into her fur. And Kirjava knew it was true.
Without Lyra he wasn't unhappy, not exactly. In some ways he was the happiest he'd ever been: He had Mary, a good friend and someone to care for him; his mother was better, getting better, was nearly well; finally he could live and let someone else worry. But he knew there was something missing, and he knew what it was. It haunted him, lurked on the edges of his mind, made him cry in his sleep. He could lead a normal enough life, but there was a constant ache in the back of his heart that would never quite let him rest.
There were dozens of reasons not to cut another window, and there was only one in favor of it. But that reason meant more to him than all the rest combined.
He gently put Kirjava down and stood up. The knife was steady now in his hand; he extended it into the air and his mind ran swiftly down the handle and toward the tip of the blade, faster than he remembered. Almost immediately, he felt the stitch in the air that he recognized as Lyra's world.
It was almost as if the knife wanted to be used. And he remembered, reluctantly: Sometimes in doing what you intend, you also do what the knife intends...
And he hesitated.
Memories flashed through his head so quickly he barely had time to recognize them: Lyra, offering him the red fruit in their gold-and-silver grove. Lyra, lying beside him on the beach. Kirjava, his newly discovered dæmon, telling him what the subtle knife did. Xaphania, commanding him to break the knife. Lyra, again, that final glimpse of her tear-stained face as he closed the last window.
It didn't have to be the last window. He had the knife, he was poised to use it, what was stopping him?
"Kirjava!" Will cried out desperately.
But his cat dæmon had vanished. This was his decision, and he was alone.
Dust...the dead...Specters...
But Lyra. Lyra...
Somewhere in her own world, Lyra Silvertongue cried out in pain and longing as the boy Will threw the once again shattered subtle knife as far out into the gleaming river as he could.
Now he had done it all again, the joining of the pieces. And it had been hard, harder than before. But he had done it, and he held the knife. It was dull and only about six inches long, but he knew it was just the same. Tired though he was, every nerve in his body trembled with the feeling of holding it again, and the raised gold fit his grip perfectly.
John had driven him back to East Street from the forge, and now Will stammered out a thanks and left the car. Where? Where should he go now, to cut a window? He cast around him, but the street was full of people coming in and out of the shops. But there were parks here, extensive ones, and certainly he could find a secluded area...
"What about thinking things through?" said Kirjava softly.
"I've thought about it," he replied, his breathing ragged and reckless. "And I've decided. I decided a long time ago, I think."
Kirjava said nothing, and Will could feel her confliction. She wanted another window, of course she did, but...
Will ignored her and concentrated on walking, walking down the street and to the left, and down more streets until he came to the parks, the large, beautiful parks of Southampton. He couldn't remember how long it took him to get there. All he could remember was starting to walk, and then arriving instantaneously. Time was behaving strangely for him now, and before he could take in any of the park at all he was walking through it, and he arrived at a wide, slow-moving river at the edge of the city.
It was perfect, of course. There were no people, and the river was surrounded with trees to make a sort of green tunnel with sunlight illuminating the center of the water like it was a path to heaven. Will stood among the trees on the riverbank, in a small patch of green-gold grass, and a narrow path led back the way he had come.
His heart was thudding painfully fast and hard, and his hand shook so violently he could barely keep hold of the knife. He breathed deeply to calm himself, and thought about Lyra. In her world he would come out something like forty miles from Oxford; he could only hope she was still living there. But he could find Jordan College, and at the very least someone there would know where she had gone.
He had left a note for his mother and Mary, saying only that he would be back. Even while writing the words he had felt uneasy, because he didn't know if they were true.
"When you find Lyra, what then?" asked Kirjava, knowing what he was thinking. "Will you stay there with her, ten years and then die?"
"I wouldn't have to stay," he whispered. "I could just see her and then come back."
Kirjava laughed softly. "Do you really think we could do that again? Leave when we had just found them?"
Will shook his head miserably. Of course they couldn't. "I could leave a window open, and come back through sometimes. The window for the dead, that's open, just one more window couldn't let too much Dust out."
Kirjava knew this wasn't true and knew also that he knew it himself, so she said nothing.
"Or I could...the angel said she was going to get rid of the Specters, and if I just kept making windows quickly whenever I needed to, it wouldn't matter, she could get rid of the Specters I'd create," he said desperately.
But Kirjava was shaking her head. "Do you think she'd clean up after you like that? She wouldn't. It was a bargain, remember, and if she knew you were using the knife she'd close the window from the world of the dead, and everyone would be stuck down there forever."
Will was grasping at straws now, and he said without thinking, "If dæmons can only live in their own world, you could—" And he stopped.
She looked up at him sadly. "Would you leave me, Will? Would you have me stay here lonely forever while you lived happily with Lyra?"
He gasped at the thought and at the pain on her small, feline face. He knelt quickly on the grass and scooped her up in his left arm and held her close to his chest. "I couldn't be happy without you, not ever," he said, muffled, into her fur. And Kirjava knew it was true.
Without Lyra he wasn't unhappy, not exactly. In some ways he was the happiest he'd ever been: He had Mary, a good friend and someone to care for him; his mother was better, getting better, was nearly well; finally he could live and let someone else worry. But he knew there was something missing, and he knew what it was. It haunted him, lurked on the edges of his mind, made him cry in his sleep. He could lead a normal enough life, but there was a constant ache in the back of his heart that would never quite let him rest.
There were dozens of reasons not to cut another window, and there was only one in favor of it. But that reason meant more to him than all the rest combined.
He gently put Kirjava down and stood up. The knife was steady now in his hand; he extended it into the air and his mind ran swiftly down the handle and toward the tip of the blade, faster than he remembered. Almost immediately, he felt the stitch in the air that he recognized as Lyra's world.
It was almost as if the knife wanted to be used. And he remembered, reluctantly: Sometimes in doing what you intend, you also do what the knife intends...
And he hesitated.
Memories flashed through his head so quickly he barely had time to recognize them: Lyra, offering him the red fruit in their gold-and-silver grove. Lyra, lying beside him on the beach. Kirjava, his newly discovered dæmon, telling him what the subtle knife did. Xaphania, commanding him to break the knife. Lyra, again, that final glimpse of her tear-stained face as he closed the last window.
It didn't have to be the last window. He had the knife, he was poised to use it, what was stopping him?
"Kirjava!" Will cried out desperately.
But his cat dæmon had vanished. This was his decision, and he was alone.
Dust...the dead...Specters...
But Lyra. Lyra...
Somewhere in her own world, Lyra Silvertongue cried out in pain and longing as the boy Will threw the once again shattered subtle knife as far out into the gleaming river as he could.