Northen Lights by Phillip Pullman (for Rose10)

[Amarashia]

Into this wild abyss,
The womb of nature and perhaps her grave,
Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,
But all of these in their pregnant causes mixed
Confusedly, and which thus might ever fight,
Unless the almighty maker them orlain
His dark materials to create more worlds,
Into thes wild abyss of hell and looked a while,
Pondering his voyage ...

John Milton: Paradise Lost, Book II

Contents

Part One: Oxford

1 The Decanter of the Tokay___ 3
2 The Idea of North__________ 18
3 Lyra's Jordan______________ 34
4 The Alethiometer___________ 67
5 The C*oc*ktail Party________ 82
6 The Throwing-Nets_________ 99
7 John Faa_________________ 11
8 Fustration________________ 131
9 The Spies_________________ 142

[moonlight]

[Amarashia]

Part 1: Oxford
Page: 1

1
The Decanter of Tokay

Lyra and her dæmon moved through the darkening Hall, taking care to keep to on side, out of sight of the kitchen. The three great tables that ran the length of the Hall were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were pulled out ready for the guestd. Portraits of the former Masters hung high up in the gloom along the walls. Lyra reached the dais and looked back at the open kitchen door and, seeing no one, stepped up beside the high table. The places here were laid with gold, not silver, and the fourteen seats were not oak benches but mahogany chairs with velvet cushions.
Lyra stopped beside the Master's chair and flicked the biggest glass gently with a fingernail. The sound rang clearly throught the Hall.
"You're not taking this seriously," whispered her dæmon. "Behave yourself."
Her dæmon's name was Pantalaimon, and he was currently in the form of a moth, a dark brown one so as not to show up in the darkness of the Hall.
"They're making too much noise to hear from the kitchen," Lyra whispered back. "And the Steward doesn't come in 'till the first bell. Stop fussing."
But she put her palm over the ringing crystal anyway, and Pantalaimon fluttered ahead and through the slightly open door of the Retiring Room at the other end of the dais. After a moment he appeared again.

Phew! Only a page and there are 399 pages and I'm not joking!

For images visit www.geocities.com/torre_degli_angeli/northernlightspics.htm

[Amarashia]

Page: 2

"There's no one there," he whispered. "But we must be quick."
Crouching behind the high table, Lyra darted along and through the door into the Retiring Room, where she stood up and looked around. The only light in here came from the fireplace, where a bright blaze of logs settled slightly as she looked, sending a fountain of sparks up into the chimney. She had lived most of her life in the Collage, but had never seen the Retiring Room before: only Scholars and thir guest were allowed in here, and never females. Even the maidservants didn't clean in here. That was the butler's job alone.
Pantalaimon settled on her shoulder.
"Happy now? Can we go?" he whispered.
"Don't be silly! I want to look around!"
It was a large room, with an oval table of polished rosewood on which stood various decanters and glasses, and a silver smoking mill with a rack of pipes. On a sideboard nearby there was a little charfing-dish and a basket of poppy-heads.
"They do themselves well, don't they, Pan?" she said under her breath.
She sat inone of the green leather armchairs. It was so deep she found herself nearly lying down, but she sat up again and tucked her legs under her to look at the portraits on the walls. More old Scholars, probably: robed, bearded and gloomy, they stared out of their frames in solemn disapproval.
"What do you think they talk about?" Layra said, or began to say, because before she'd finished the question she heard voices outside the door.
"Behind the chair - quick!" whispered Pantalaimon, and in a flash Lyra was out of the armchair and crouching behind it. It wasn't the best one for hiding behind: she'd chosen one in the very centre of the room, and unless she kept very quiet...