Philip Pullman - Dark Materials 02 - The Subtle Knife

His Dark Materials

Book Two

THE SUBTLE

KNIFE

Philip Pullman

ONE

THE CAT AND

THE HORNBEAM TREES

Will tugged at his mother's hand and said, "Come on, come on..."

But his mother hung back. She was still afraid. Will looked up and down the narrow street in the evening

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light, along the little terrace of houses, each behind its tiny garden and its box hedge, with the sun glaring

off the windows of one side and leaving the other in shadow. There wasn't much time. People would be

having their meal about now, and soon there would be other children around, to stare and comment and

notice. It was dangerous to wait, but all he could do was persuade her, as usual.

"Mum, let's go in and see Mrs. Cooper," he said. "Look, we're nearly there."

"Mrs. Cooper?" she said doubtfully.

But he was already ringing the bell. He had to put down the bag to do it, because his other hand still held

his mother's. It might have bothered him at twelve years of age to be seen holding his mother's hand, but

he knew what would happen to her if he didn't.

The door opened, and there was the stooped elderly figure of the piano teacher, with the scent of

lavender water about her as he remembered.

"Who's that? Is that William?" the old lady said. "I haven't seen you for over a year. What do you want,

dear?"

"I want to come in, please, and bring my mother," he said firmly.

Mrs. Cooper looked at the woman with the untidy hair and the distracted half-smile, and at the boy with

the fierce, unhappy glare in his eyes, the tight-set lips, the jutting jaw. And then she saw that Mrs. Parry,

Will's mother, had put makeup on one eye but not on the other. And she hadn't noticed. And neither had

Will. Something was wrong.

"Well..." she said, and stepped aside to make room in the narrow hall.

Will looked up and down the road before closing the door, and Mrs. Cooper saw how tightly Mrs.

Parry was clinging to her son's hand, and how tenderly he guided her into the sitting room where the

piano was (of course, that was the only room he knew); and she noticed that Mrs. Parry's clothes

smelled slightly musty, as if they'd been too long in the washing machine before drying; and how similar

the two of them looked as they sat on the sofa with the evening sun full on their faces, their broad

cheekbones, their wide eyes, their straight black brows.

"What is it, William?" the old lady said. "What's the matter?"

"My mother needs somewhere to stay for a few days," he said. "It's too difficult to look after her at

home just now. I don't mean she's ill. She's just kind of confused and muddled, and she gets a bit

worried. She won't be hard to look after. She just needs someone to be kind to her, and I think you

could do that quite easily, probably."

The woman was looking at her son without seeming to understand, and Mrs. Cooper saw a bruise on

her cheek. Will hadn't taken his eyes off Mrs. Cooper, and his expression was desperate.

"She won't be expensive," he went on. "I've brought some packets of food, enough to last, I should

think. You could have some of it too. She won't mind sharing."

"But ... I don't know if I should ... Doesn't she need a doctor?"

"No! She's not ill."

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"But there must be someone who can... I mean, isn't there a neighbor or someone in the family—"

"We haven't got any family. Only us. And the neighbors are too busy."

"What about the social services? I don't mean to put you off, dear, but—"

"No! No. She just needs a bit of help. I can't do it myself for a little while, but I won't be long. I'm going

to ... I've got things to do. But I'll be back soon, and I'll take her home again, I promise. You won't have

to do it for long."

The mother was looking at her son with such trust, and he turned and smiled at her with such love and

reassurance, that Mrs. Cooper couldn't say no.

"Well," she said, turning to Mrs. Parry, "I'm sure it won't matter for a day or so. You can have my

daughter's room, dear. She's in Australia. She won't be needing it again."

"Thank you," said Will, and stood up as if he were in a hurry to leave.

"But where are you going to be?" said Mrs. Cooper.

"I'm going to be staying with a friend," he said. "I'll phone up as often as I can. I've got your number. It'll

be all right"

His mother was looking at him, bewildered. He bent over and kissed her clumsily.

"Don't worry," he said. "Mrs. Cooper will look after you better than me, honest. And I'll phone up and

talk to you tomorrow."

They hugged tightly, and then Will kissed her again and gently unfastened her arms from his neck before

going to the front door. Mrs. Cooper could see he was upset, because his eyes were glistening, but he

turned, remembering his manners, and held out his hand.

"Good-bye," he said, "and thank you very much."

"William," she said, "I wish you'd tell me what the matter is—"

"It's a bit complicated," he said, "but she won't be any trouble, honestly."

That wasn't what she meant, and both of them knew it; but somehow Will was in charge of this business,

whatever it was. The old lady thought she'd never seen a child so implacable.

He turned away, already thinking about the empty house.

The close where Will and his mother lived was a loop of road in a modern estate with a dozen identical

houses, of which theirs was by far the shabbiest. The front garden was just a patch of weedy grass; his

mother had planted some shrubs earlier in the year, but they'd shriveled and died for lack of watering. As

Will came around the corner, his cat, Moxie, rose up from her favorite spot under the still-living

hydrangea and stretched before greeting him with a soft meow and butting her head against his leg.

He picked her up and whispered, "Have they come back, Moxie? Have you seen them?"

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The house was silent. In the last of the evening light the man across the road was washing his car, but he

took no notice of Will, and Will didn't look at him. The less notice people took, the better.

Holding Moxie against his chest, he unlocked the door and went in quickly. Then he listened very

carefully before putting her down. There was nothing to hear; the house was empty.

He opened a tin for Moxie and left her to eat in the kitchen. How long before the men came back?

There was no way of telling, so he'd better move quickly. He went upstairs and began to search.

He was looking for a battered green leather writing case. There are a surprising number of places to hide

something that size even in any ordinary modern house; you don't need secret panels and extensive

cellars in order to make something hard to find. Will searched his mother's bedroom first, ashamed to be

looking through the drawers where she kept her underclothes, and then he worked systematically through

the rest of the rooms upstairs, even his own. Moxie came to see what he was doing and sat and cleaned

herself nearby, for company.

But he didn't find it.

By that time it was dark, and he was hungry. He made himself baked beans on toast and sat at the

kitchen table wondering about the best order to look through the downstairs rooms.

As he was finishing his meal, the phone rang.

He sat absolutely still, his heart thumping. He counted: twenty-six rings, and then it stopped. He put his

plate in the suik and started to search again.

Four hours later he still hadn't found the green leather case. It was half past one, and he was exhausted.

He lay on his bed fully clothed and fell asleep at once, his dreams tense and crowded, his mother's

unhappy, frightened face always there just out of reach.

And almost at once, it seemed (though he'd been asleep for nearly three hours), he woke up knowing

two things simultaneously.

First, he knew where the case was. And second, he knew that the men were downstairs, opening the

kitchen door.

He lifted Moxie out of the way and softly hushed her sleepy protest. Then he swung his legs over the

side of the bed and put on his shoes, straining every nerve to hear the sounds from downstairs. They

were very quiet sounds: a chair being lifted and replaced, a short whisper, the creak of a floorboard.

Moving more silently than the men were, he left his bedroom and tiptoed to the spare room at the top of

the stairs. It wasn't quite pitch-dark, and in the ghostly gray predawn light he could see the old treadle

sewing machine. He'd been through the room thoroughly only hours before, but he'd forgotten the

compartment at the side of the sewing machine, where all the patterns and bobbins were kept.

He felt for it delicately, listening all the while. The men were moving about downstairs, and Will could

see a dim flicker of light that might have been a flashlight at the edge of the door.

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Then he found the catch of the compartment and clicked it open, and there, just as he'd known it would

be, was the leather writing case.

And now what could he do? He crouched in the dimness, heart pounding, listening hard.

The two men were in the hall downstairs. He heard one of them say quietly, "Come on. I can hear the

milkman down the road."

"It's not here, though," said the other voice. "We'll have to look upstairs."

"Go on, then. Don't hang about."

Will braced himself as he heard the quiet creak of the top step. The man was making no noise at all, but

he couldn't help the creak if he wasn't expecting it. Then there was a pause. A very thin beam of flashlight

swept along the floor outside. Will saw it through the crack.

Then the door began to move. Will waited till the man was framed in the open doorway, and then

exploded up out of the dark and crashed into the intruder's belly.

But neither of them saw the cat.

As the man had reached the top step, Moxie had come silently out of the bedroom and stood with

raised tail just behind the man's legs, ready to rub herself against them. The man, who was trained and fit

and hard, could have dealt with Will, but the cat was in the way, and as the man tried to move back, he

tripped over her. With a sharp gasp he fell backward down the stairs and crashed his head brutally

against the hall table.

Will heard a hideous crack, and didn't stop to wonder about it. Clutching the writing case, he swung

himself down the banister, leaping over the man's body that lay twitching and crumpled at the foot of the

flight, seized the tattered tote bag from the table, and was out of the front door and away before the other

man could do more than come out of the living room and stare.

Even in his fear and haste Will wondered why the other man didn't shout after him, or chase him. They'd

be after him soon, though, with their cars and their cell phones. The only thing to do was run.

He saw the milkman turning into the close, the lights of his electric cart pallid in the dawn glimmer that

was already filling the sky. Will jumped over the fence into the next-door garden, down the passage

beside the house, over the next garden wall, across a dew-wet lawn, through the hedge, and into the

tangle of shrubs and trees between the housing estate and the main road. There he crawled under a bush

and lay panting and trembling. It was too early to be out on the road: wait till later, when the rush hour

started.

He couldn't get out of his mind the crack as the man's head struck the table, and the way his neck was

bent so far and in such a wrong way, and the dreadful twitching of his limbs. The man was dead. He'd

killed him.

He couldn't get it out of his mind, but he had to. There was quite enough to think about. His mother:

would she really be safe where she was? Mrs. Cooper wouldn't tell, would she? Even if Will didn't turn

up as he'd said he would? Because he couldn't, now that he'd killed someone.

And Moxie. Who'd feed Moxie? Would Moxie worry about where they were? Would she try to follow

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them?

It was getting lighter by the minute. It was light enough already to check through the things in the tote

bag: his mother's purse, the latest letter from the lawyer, the road map of southern England, chocolate

bars, toothpaste, spare socks and pants. And the green leather writing case.

Everything was there. Everything was going according to plan, really.

Except that he'd killed someone.

Will had first realized his mother was different from other people, and that he had to look after her, when

he was seven. They were in a supermarket, and they were playing a game: they were allowed to put an

item in the cart only when no one was looking. It was Will's job to look all around and whisper "Now,"

and she would snatch a tin or a packet from the shelf and put it silently into the cart. When things were in

there they were safe, because they became invisible.

It was a good game, and it went on for a long time, because this was a Saturday morning and the shop

was full, but they were good at it and worked well together. They trusted each other. Will loved his

mother very much and often told her so, and she told him the same.

So when they reached the checkout Will was excited and happy because they'd nearly won. And when

his mother couldn't find her purse, that was part of the game too, even when she said the enemies must

have stolen it; but Will was getting tired by this time, and hungry too, and Mummy wasn't so happy

anymore. She was really frightened, and they went around and around putting things back on the shelves,

but this time they had to be extra careful because the enemies were tracking them down by means of her

credit card numbers, which they knew because they had her purse....

And Will got more and more frightened himself. He realized how clever his mother had been to make

this real danger into a game so that he wouldn't be alarmed, and how, now that he knew the truth, he had

to pretend not to be frightened, so as to reassure her.

So the little boy pretended it was a game still, so she didn't have to worry that he was frightened, and

they went home without any shopping, but safe from the enemies; and then Will found the purse on the

hall table anyway. On Monday they went to the bank and closed her account, and opened another

somewhere else, just to be sure. Thus the danger passed

But sometime during the next few months, Will realized slowly and unwillingly that those enemies of his

mother's were not in the world out there, but in her mind. That made them no less real, no less frightening

and dangerous; it just meant he had to protect her even more carefully. And from the moment in the

supermarket when he had realized he must pretend in order not to worry his mother, part of Will's mind

was always alert to her anxieties. He loved her so much he would have died to protect her.

As for Will's father, he had vanished long before Will was able to remember him. Will was passionately

curious about his father, and he used to plague his mother with questions, most of which she couldn't

answer.

"Was he a rich man?"

"Where did he go?"

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"Why did he go?"

"Is he dead?"

"Will he come back?'

"What was he like?"

The last question was the only one she could help him with. John Parry had been a handsome man, a

brave and clever officer in the Royal Marines, who had left the army to become an explorer and lead

expeditions to remote parts of the world. Will thrilled to hear about this. No father could be more exciting

than an explorer. From then on, in all his games he had an invisible companion: he and his father were

together hacking through the jungle, shading their eyes to gaze out across stormy seas from the deck of

their schooner, holding up a torch to decipher mysterious inscriptions in a bat-infested cave. ... They

were the best of friends, they saved each other's life countless times, they laughed and talked together

over camp-fires long into the night.

But the older he got, the more Will began to wonder. Why were there no pictures of his father in this

part of the world or that, riding with frost-bearded men on Arctic sledges or examining creeper-covered

ruins in the jungle? Had nothing survived of the trophies and curiosities he must have brought home? Was

nothing written about him in a book?

His mother didn't know. But one thing she had said stuck in his mind.

She said, "One day, you'll follow in your father's footsteps. You're going to be a great man too. You'll

take up his mantle."

And though Will didn't know what that meant, he understood the sense of it, and felt uplifted with pride

and purpose. All his games were going to come true. His father was alive, lost somewhere hi the wild,

and he was going to rescue him and take up his mantle.... It was worth living a difficult life, if you had a

great aim like that.

So he kept his mother's trouble secret. There were times when she was calmer and clearer than others,

and he took care to learn from her then how to shop and cook and keep the house clean, so that he

could do it when she was confused and frightened. And he learned how to conceal himself, too, how to

remain unnoticed at school, how not to attract attention from the neighbors, even when his mother was hi

such a state of fear and madness that she could barely speak. What Will himself feared more than

anything was that the authorities would find out about her, and take her away, and put him in a home

among strangers. Any difficulty was better than that. Because there came times when the darkness

cleared from her mind, and she was happy again, and she laughed at her fears and blessed him for

looking after her so well; and she was so full of love and sweetness then that he could think of no better

companion, and wanted nothing more than to live with her alone forever.

But then the men came.

They weren't police, and they weren't social services, and they weren't criminals—at least as far as Will

could judge. They wouldn't tell him what they wanted, in spite of his efforts to keep them away; they'd

speak only to his mother. And her state was fragile just then.

But he listened outside the door, and heard them ask about his father, and felt his breath come more

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quickly.

The men wanted to know where John Parry had gone, and whether he'd sent anything back to her, and

when she'd last heard from him, and whether he'd had contact with any foreign embassies. Will heard his

mother getting more and more distressed, and finally he ran into the room and told them to go.

He looked so fierce that neither of the men laughed, though he was so young. They could easily have

knocked him down, or held him off the floor with one hand, but he was fearless, and his anger was hot

and deadly.

So they left. Naturally, this episode strengthened Will's conviction: his father was in trouble somewhere,

and only he could help. His games weren't childish anymore, and he didn't play so openly. It was coming

true, and he had to be worthy of it.

And not long afterward the men came back, insisting that Will's mother had something to tell them. They

came when Will was at school, and one of them kept her talking downstairs while the other searched the

bedrooms. She didn't realize what they were doing. But Will came home early and found them, and once

again he blazed at them, and once again they left.

They seemed to know that he wouldn't go to the police, for fear of losing his mother to the authorities,

and they got more and more persistent. Finally they broke into the house when Will had gone to fetch his

mother home from the park. It was getting worse for her now, and she believed that she had to touch

every separate slat in every separate bench beside the pond. Will would help her, to get it done quicker.

When they got home that day they saw the back of the men's car disappearing out of the close, and he

got inside to find that they'd been through the house and searched most of the drawers and cupboards.

He knew what they were after. The green leather case was his mother's most precious possession; he

would never dream of looking through it, and he didn't even know where she kept it. But he knew it

contained letters, and he knew she read them sometimes, and cried, and it was then that she talked about

his father. So Will supposed that this was what the men were after, and knew he had to do something

about it.

He decided first to find somewhere safe for his mother to stay. He thought and thought, but he had no

friends to ask, and the neighbors were already suspicious, and the only person he thought he could trust

was Mrs. Cooper. Once his mother was safely there, he was going to find the green leather case and

look at what was in it, and then he was going to go to Oxford, where he'd find the answer to some of his

questions. But the men came too soon.

And now he'd killed one of them.

So the police would be after him too.

Well, he was good at not being noticed. He'd have to not be noticed harder than he'd ever done in his

life before, and keep it up as long as he could, till either he found his father or they found him. And if they

found him first, he didn't care how many more of them he killed.

Later that day, toward midnight in fact, Will was walking out of the city of Oxford, forty miles away. He

was tired to his very bones. He had hitchhiked, and ridden on two buses, and walked, and reached

Oxford at six in the evening, too late to do what he needed to do. He'd eaten at a Burger King and gone

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to a cinema to hide (though what the film was, he forgot even as he was watching it), and now he was

walking along an endless road through the suburbs, heading north.

No one had noticed nun so far. But he was aware that he'd better find somewhere to sleep before long,

because the later it got, the more noticeable he'd be. The trouble was that there was nowhere to hide in

the gardens of the comfortable houses along this road, and there was still no sign of open country.

He came to a large traffic circle where the road going north crossed the Oxford ring road going east and

west. At this time of night there was very little traffic, and the road where he stood was quiet, with

comfortable houses set back behind a wide expanse of grass on either side. Planted along the grass at the

road's edge were two lines of hornbeam trees, odd-looking things with perfectly symmetrical close-leafed

crowns, more like children's drawings than like real trees. The streetlights made the scene look artificial,

like a stage set. Will was stupefied with exhaustion, and he might have gone on to the north, or he might

have laid his head on the grass under one of those trees and slept; but as he stood trying to clear his

head, he saw a cat.

She was a tabby, like Moxie. She padded out of a garden on the Oxford side of the road, where Will

was standing. Will put down his tote bag and held out his hand, and the cat came up to rub her head

against his knuckles, just as Moxie did. Of course, every cat behaved like that, but all the same Will felt

such a longing for home that tears scalded his eyes.

Eventually the cat turned away. This was night, and there was a territory to patrol, there were mice to

hunt. She padded across the road and toward the bushes just beyond the hornbeam trees, and there she

stopped.

Will, still watching, saw the cat behave curiously.

She reached out a paw to pat something in the air in front of her, something quite invisible to Will. Then

she leaped backward, back arched and fur on end, tail held out stiffly. Will knew cat behavior. He

watched more alertly as the cat approached the spot again, just an empty patch of grass between the

hornbeams and the bushes of a garden hedge, and patted the air once more.

Again she leaped back, but less far and with less alarm this time. After another few seconds of sniffing,

touching, and whisker twitching, curiosity overcame wariness.

The cat stepped forward—and vanished.

Will blinked. Then he stood still, close to the trunk of the nearest tree, as a truck came around the circle

and swept its lights over him. When it had gone past, he crossed the road, keeping his eyes on the spot

where the cat had been investigating. It wasn't easy, because there was nothing to fix on, but when he

came to the place and cast about to look closely, he saw it.

At least, he saw it from some angles. It looked as if someone had cut a patch out of the air, about two

yards from the edge of the road, a patch roughly square in shape and less than a yard across. If you were

level with the patch so that it was edge-on, it was nearly invisible, and it was completely invisible from

behind. You could see it only from the side nearest the road, and you couldn't see it easily even from

there, because all you could see through it was exactly the same kind of thing that lay in front of it on this

side: a patch of grass lit by a streetlight.

But Will knew without the slightest doubt that that patch of grass on the other side was in a different

world.

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He couldn't possibly have said why. He knew it at once, as strongly as he knew that fire burned and

kindness was good. He was looking at something profoundly alien.

And for that reason alone, it enticed him to stoop and look further. What he saw made his head swim

and his heart thump harder, but he didn't hesitate: he pushed his tote bag through, and then scrambled

through himself, through the hole in the fabric of this world and into another.

He found himself standing under a row of trees. But not hornbeam trees: these were tall palms, and they

were growing, like the trees in Oxford, in a row along the grass. But this was the center of a broad

boulevard, and at the side of the boulevard was a line of cafes and small shops, all brightly bt, all open,

and all utterly silent and empty beneath a sky thick with stars. The hot night was laden with the scent of

flowers and with the salt smell of the sea.

Will looked around carefully. Behind him the full moon shone down over a distant prospect of great

green hills, and on the slopes at the foot of the hills there were houses with rich gardens, and an open

parkland with groves of trees and the white gleam of a classical temple.

Just beside him was that bare patch in the air, as hard to see from this side as from the other, but

definitely there. He bent to look through and saw the road in Oxford, his own world. He turned away

with a shudder: whatever this new world was, it had to be better than what he'd just left. With a dawning

light-headedness, the feeling that he was dreaming but awake at the same time, he stood up and looked

around for the cat, his guide.

She was nowhere in sight. No doubt she was already exploring those narrow streets and gardens

beyond the cafes whose lights were so inviting. Will lifted up his tattered tote bag and walked slowly

across the road toward them, moving very carefully in case it all disappeared.

The air of the place had something Mediterranean or maybe Caribbean about it. Will had never been out

of England, so he couldn't compare it with anywhere he knew, but it was the kind of place where people

came out late at night to eat and drink, to dance and enjoy music. Except that there was no one here, and

the silence was immense.

On the first corner he reached there stood a cafe, with little green tables on the pavement and a

zinc-topped bar and an espresso machine. On some of the tables glasses stood half-empty; in one

ashtray a cigarette had burned down to the butt; a plate of risotto stood next to a basket of stale rolls as

hard as cardboard.

He took a bottle of lemonade from the cooler behind the bar and then thought for a moment before

dropping a pound coin in the till. As soon as he'd shut the till, he opened it again, realizing that the money

in there might say what this place was called. The currency was called the corona, but he couldn't tell any

more than that.

He put the money back and opened the bottle on the opener fixed to the counter before leaving the cafe

and wandering down the street going away from the boulevard. Little grocery shops and bakeries stood

between jewelers and florists and bead-curtained doors opening into private houses, where wrought-iron

balconies thick with flowers overhung the narrow pavement, and where the silence, being enclosed, was

even more profound.

The streets were leading downward, and before very long they opened out onto a broad avenue where

more palm trees reached high into the air, the underside of their leaves glowing in me streetlights.

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Philip Pullman - Dark Materials 02 - The Subtle Knife

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