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“Yes,” said the ghost, “his name was Sandling . . . oh, I loved him . . .”
“And had he settled?” said Lyra.
“No, not yet. He used to think he’d be a bird, and I hoped he wouldn’t, because I liked him all furry in bed at night. But he was a bird more and more. What’s your dæmon called?”
Lyra told her, and the ghosts pressed forward eagerly again. They all wanted to talk about their dæmons, every one.
“Mine was called Matapan—”
“We used to play hide-and-seek, she’d change like a chameleon and I couldn’t see her at all, she was ever so good—”
“Once I hurt my eye and I couldn’t see and he guided me all the way home—”
“He never wanted to settle, but I wanted to grow up, and we used to argue—”
“She used to curl up in my hand and go to sleep—”
“Are they still there, somewhere else? Will we see them again?”
“No. When you die, your dæmon just goes out like a candle flame. I seen it happen. I never saw my Castor, though—I never said good-bye—”
“They en’t nowhere! They must be somewhere! My dæmon’s still there somewhere, I know he is!”
The jostling ghosts were animated and eager, their eyes shining and their cheeks warm, as if they were borrowing life from the travelers.
Will said, “Is there anyone here from my world, where we don’t have dæmons?”
A thin ghost boy of his own age nodded, and Will turned to him.
“Oh yes,” came the answer. “We didn’t understand what dæmons were, but we knew what it felt like to be without them. There’s people here from all kinds of worlds.”
“I knew my death,” said one girl, “I knew him all the while I was growing up. When I heard them talk about dæmons, I thought they meant something like our deaths. I miss him now. I won’t never see him again. I’m over and done with, that’s the last thing he said to me, and then he went forever. When he was with me, I always knew there was someone I could trust, someone who knew where we was going and what to do. But I ain’t got him no more. I don’t know what’s going to happen ever again.”
“There ain’t nothing going to happen!” someone else said. “Nothing, forever!”
“You don’t know,” said another. “They came, didn’t they? No one ever knew that was going to happen.”
She meant Will and Lyra.
“This is the first thing that ever happened here,” said a ghost boy. “Maybe it’s all going to change now.”
“What would you do, if you could?” said Lyra.
“Go up to the world again!”
“Even if it meant you could only see it once, would you still want to do that?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Well, anyway, I’ve got to find Roger,” said Lyra, burning with her new idea; but it was for Will to know first.
On the floor of the endless plain, there was a vast, slow movement among the uncountable ghosts. The children couldn’t see it, but Tialys and Salmakia, flying above, watched the little pale figures all moving with an effect that looked like the migration of immense flocks of birds or herds of reindeer. At the center of the movement were the two children who were not ghosts, moving steadily on; not leading, and not following, but somehow focusing the movement into an intention of all the dead.
The spies, their thoughts moving even more quickly than their darting steeds, exchanged a glance and brought the dragonflies to rest side by side on a dry, withered branch.
“Do we have dæmons, Tialys?” said the Lady.
“Since we got into that boat, I have felt as if my heart had been torn out and thrown still beating on the shore,” he said. “But it wasn’t; it’s still working in my breast. So something of mine is out there with the little girl’s dæmon, and something of yours, too, Salmakia, because your face is drawn and your hands are pale and tight. Yes, we have dæmons, whatever they are. Maybe the people in Lyra’s world are the only living beings to know they have. Maybe that’s why it was one of them who started the revolt.”
He slipped off the dragonfly’s back and tethered it safely, and then took out the lodestone resonator. But he had hardly begun to touch it when he stopped.
“No response,” he said somberly.
“So we’re beyond everything?”
“Beyond help, certainly. Well, we knew we were coming to the land of the dead.”
“The boy would go with her to the end of the world.”
“Will his knife open the way back, do you think?”
“I’m sure he thinks so. But oh, Tialys, I don’t know.”
“He’s very young. Well, they are both young. You know, if she doesn’t survive this, the question of whether she’ll choose the right thing when she’s tempted won’t arise. It won’t matter anymore.”
“Do you think she’s chosen already? When she chose to leave her dæmon on the shore? Was that the choice she had to make?”
The Chevalier looked down on the slow-moving millions on the floor of the land of the dead, all drifting after that bright and living spark Lyra Silvertongue. He could just make out her hair, the lightest thing in the gloom, and beside it the boy’s head, black-haired and solid and strong.
“No,” he said, “not yet. That’s still to come, whatever it may be.”
“Then we must bring her to it safely.”
“Bring them both. They’re bound together now.”
The Lady Salmakia flicked the cobweb-light rein, and her dragonfly darted off the branch at once and sped down toward the living children, with the Chevalier close behind.
But they didn’t stop with them; having skimmed low to make sure they were all right, they flew on ahead, partly because the dragonflies were restless, and partly because they wanted to find out how far this dismal place extended.
Lyra saw them flashing overhead and felt a pang of relief that there was still something that darted and glowed with beauty. Then, unable to keep her idea to herself anymore, she turned to Will; but she had to whisper. She put her lips to his ear, and in a noisy rush of warmth, he heard her say:
“Will, I want us to take all these poor dead ghost kids outside—the grownups as well—we could set ’em free! We’ll find Roger and your father, and then let’s open the way to the world outside, and set ’em all free!”
He turned and gave her a true smile, so warm and happy she felt something stumble and falter inside her; at least, it felt like that, but without Pantalaimon she couldn’t ask herself what it meant. It might have been a new way for her heart to beat. Deeply surprised, she told herself to walk straight and stop feeling giddy.
So they moved on. The whisper Roger was spreading out faster than they could move; the words “Roger—Lyra’s come—Roger—Lyra’s here” passed from one ghost to another like the electric message that one cell in the body passes on to the next.
And Tialys and Salmakia, cruising above on their tireless dragonflies, and looking all around as they flew, eventually noticed a new kind of movement. Some way off there was a little gyration of activity. Skimming down closer, they found themselves ignored, for the first time, because something more interesting was gripping the minds of all the ghosts. They were talking excitedly in their near-silent whispers, they were pointing, they were urging someone forward.
Salmakia flew down low, but couldn’t land: the press was too great, and none of their hands or shoulders would support her, even if they dared to try. She saw a young ghost boy with an honest, unhappy face, dazed and puzzled by what he was being told, and she called out:
“Roger? Is that Roger?”
He looked up, bemused, nervous, and nodded.
Salmakia flew back up to her companion, and together they sped back to Lyra. It was a long way, and hard to navigate, but by watching the patterns of movement, they finally found her.
“There she is,” said Tialys, and called: “Lyra! Lyra! Your friend is there!”
Lyra looked up and held out her hand for the dragonfly. The great insect landed at once, its red and yellow gleaming like enamel, and its filmy wings stiff and still on either side. Tialys kept his balance as she held him at eye level.
